m  •  1 


THE  LIBRARY  OF  THE 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA 


D 

I 


.  ,  .  -. 


LIBRARY 

.UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA 
DAVIS 


THE 


POETICAL  WORKS 


OF 


CHARLES   G.  HALPINE 

(MILES   O'REILLY). 


CONSISTING   OF 


ODES,  POEMS,  SONNETS,  EPICS,  AND  LYRICAL  EFFUSIONS 

WHICH   HAVE   NOT  HERETOFORE  BEEN 

COLLECTED  TOGETHER. 


WITH 

A  BIOGRAPHICAL  SKETCH  AND  EXPLANATORY  NOTES. 


EDITED    BY 

ROBERT  B.  ROOSEVELT. 


NEW    YORK: 

HARPER    &    BROTHERS,    PUBLISHERS, 

FRANKLIN     SQUARE. 
1869. 


TOTVEP.STTY  OF  CAT 


Entered,  according  to  Act  of  Congress,  in  the  year  186S,  by 

HARPER   &   BROTHERS, 

In  the  Clerk's  Office  of  the  District  Court  of  the  United  States  for  the 
Southern  District  of  New  York. 


PREFACE. 


THIS  is  not  intended  to  be  a  complete  collection 
of  the  poetical  works  of  Charles  G.  Halpine.  Some 
of  these  are  already  before  the  public  in  "Miles 
OKeilly  His  Book"  and  "  Baked  Meats  of  the  Fu 
neral,"  from  which  it  is  not  desirable  to  copy  them, 
as  much  of  their  significance,  in  many  instances,  de 
pends  upon  their  connection  with  the  prose  matter 
with  which  they  are  interwoven.  It  would  be  im 
possible,  if  it  were  desirable,  to  make  any  extended 
extracts  from  those  two  books  without  explanations 
that  would  render  this  compilation  cumbersome. 
Some  of  his  earlier  productions  have  been  taken  from 
the  volume  entitled  "  Lyrics  by  the  Letter  H,"  which 
he  published  in  the  year  1854,  and  which  is  out 
of  print,  but  the  great  body  of  the  following  effu 
sions  are  now  for  the  first  time  collected.  They  are 
followed  by  notes  describing  the  circumstances  un 
der  which  some  of  them  were  written,  and  giving 
personal  reminiscences  of  the  author  that  will  grow 
in  interest  daily. 

The  habits,  mode  of  thought,  manner  of  work,  and 
many  individual  peculiarities,  although  of  no  import- 


iv  Preface. 


ance  when  they  concern  an  unknown  person,  are  of 
interest  to  the  public  when  they  affect  a  great  man, 
one  of  the  bright  lights  of  his  day  and  generation ; 
and  that  Charles  G.  Halpine  was  a  great  man,  a  bril 
liant  genius,  and  an  uncommon  intellect,  his  contem 
poraries  have  conceded,  and  posterity  will  confirm  by 
more  deliberate  decision.  The  success  of  one  labor 
er  in  the  literary  vineyard  encourages  others,  and  the 
life  under  consideration  is  a  wonderful  example  of 
the  effect  of  hard  work  when  united  with  great  gifts ; 
for  it  is  a  remarkable  fact  that  this  talented  writer 
invariably  denied  that  he  possessed  any  peculiar  ge 
nius,  and  attributed  his  success  simply  to  hard  work 
and  indomitable  energy.  His  career  is  well  worth 
studying  to  all  those  who  are  wearily  toiling  along 
the  same  hard  path,  and  even  the  sketch  of  it  which 
can  be  given  in  the  narrow  limits  of  this  volume 
teaches  a  valuable  lesson. 

That  this  collection  will  not  be  as  full  as  it  should 
be  is  accounted  for  by  the  suddenness  of  the  decease 
of  the  author,  by  the  confusion  in  which  his  papers 
w^ere  necessarily  left,  and  by  the  haste  with  which 
circumstances  have  compelled  this  compilation  to  be 
made.  For  the  same  and  other  reasons,  no  attempt 
has  been  made  at  classification,  and  it  may  be  that 
omitted  poems  will  have  to  be  added  at  the  last  mo 
ment.  General  Halpine  had  never  been  in  the  habit 
of  collecting  or  preserving  his  wrorks ;  his  pen  was  so 
busy,  his  brain  so  fertile,  his  time  so  fully  occupied, 


Preface. 


that  such  an  attempt  would  nave  been  a  severe  tax 
upon  him;  and  although  he  had  before  his  death 
commenced  getting  together  his  poetical  efforts,  the 
collection,  so  far  as  it  had  proceeded,  being  incom 
plete  and  unfinished,  was  of  little  assistance.  Al 
though  his  memory  was  wonderful,  yet  his  writings 
were  so  voluminous  that  he  actually  could  not  re 
member  them  all.  For  any  deficiencies,  therefore, 
this  explanation  must  be  the  excuse  of 

THE  EDITCE. 


BIOGRAPHICAL  SKETCH. 


CHARLES  G.  HALPINE  was  born  near  the  town  of  Old- 
castle,  in  the  county  of  Meath,  Ireland,  in  the  year  1829. 
His  father,  the  Rev.  Nicholas  J.  Halpine,  was-  an  Epis 
copal  clergyman  of  the  Established  Church,  and  a  man 
of  extraordinary  abilities.  A  remarkable  aptitude  for 
literature,  and  especially  that  peculiar  branch  of  it  con 
nected  with  the  life  of  a  journalist,  existed  in  the  fam 
ily.  The  father  was  editor  of  the  Dublin  Evening 
Mail,  and  an  uncle,  Wm.  Henry  Halpine,  was  proprietor 
and  editor  of  the  Cheltenham  Mail.  Charles  G.  Hal- 
pine  was  the  favorite  son  of  his  father,  and  early  gave 
evidences  of  those  abilities  which  brought  him  such 
distinguished  honor  in  later  years.  At  as  early  an  age 
as  the  rules  of  the  college  allowed  he  was  admitted  to 
Trinity,  from  which  he  subsequently  graduated  with 
distinction,. having  won  the  affection  of  his  fellow-stu 
dents  and  the  respect  of  his  instructors.  Subsequently 
he  commenced  the  study  of  medicine,  and  obtained  a 
superficial  but  not  thorough  knowledge  of  that  science, 
when  he  surrendered  it  for  the  more  congenial  pursuit 
of  journalism.  He  contributed  to  the  Irish,  and  subse 
quently  to  the  English  press,  spending  sqveral  years  in 
London;  but  feeling  that  his  talents  were  kept  down 
by  the  want  of  a  proper  opportunity,  he  determined 
upon  emigration  to  the  United  States. 


viii  Biographical  Sketch. 

He  came  alone  to  this  country,  although  he  had  been 
married  some  years  previous  to  his  departure  from 
England ;  but  so  soon  as  he  was  fairly  established,  he 
sent  for  his  young  wife,  who  joined  him  immediately. 
He  established  himself  in  Boston,  where  for  some  years 
he  was  connected  with  the  Boston  Post,  and  subse 
quently  became  leading  editor  of  a  paper  called  the 
Carpet  Sag,  which  had  but  a  short  existence  in  spite 
of  the  talent  of  its  conductors,  who  were  Mr.  Shillaber 
(known  under  the  soubriquet  of  Mrs.  Partington),  Dr. 
Shepley,  and  Chas.  G.  Halpine.  After  its  failure  he  re 
moved  to  New  York,  where  he  became  associate  editor 
of  the  Times,  with  Henry  J.  Raymond,  and  shortly  aft 
erward  acquired  an  interest  in  the  New  York  Leader. 
with  John  Clancy.  To  this  latter  paper  he  devoted 
his  best  efforts;  he  not  only  furnished  the  political 
matter,  but  gave  sketches  and  stories,  which  were  so 
well  appreciated  that  the  circulation  of  the  Leader  rap 
idly  increased  from  a  few  hundred  to  eleven  thousand, 
and  it  became  a  power  in  the  land.  At  that  period  he 
commenced  to  exhibit  his  talent  for  fictitious  inven 
tions  ;  and,  under  a  wager  that  he  would  produce  a 
sensation  at  a  time  when  literary  matters  were  excess 
ively  dull,  he  wrote  a  long  account  of  the  resuscitation 
of  Hicks,  the  pirate,  who  was  executed  on  Bedloe's  Isl 
and  a  short  time  before.  By  this  production,  which 
was  most  adroitly  done  and  complete  in  all  minutiae  of 
detail,  for  which  his  medical  knowledge  furnished  a 
good  basis,  he  attained  his  object,  and  not  only  set  the 
city  wild  with  excitement,  but  originated  a  blind  sus 
picion  which  was  not  allayed  for  many  years. 

He  did  not,  however,  restrict  his  pen  to  any  single 


Biographical  Sketch.  ix 

journal,  but  contributed  to  almost  all  of  importance 
that  were  published  in  the  metropolis — a  story  for  one, 
an  editorial  for  another,  a  poem  for  a  third,  on  any 
subject  and  in  various  styles  adapted  to  each  publica 
tion.  In  fact,  his  very  first  article  for  the  American 
press  appeared  in  the  Tribune  ;  and  it  was  shortly  aft 
er  his  arrival,  when  he  was  strongly  alive  to  the  wrongs 
of  his  native  country,  and  naturally  sympathetic  with 
the  down-trodden  of  every  land,  that  he  wrote  for  that 
journal  a  famous  poem,  the  authorship  of  which  has 
long  been  falsely  attributed  to  Mr.-Greeley,  containing 
the  lines, 

"Tear  down  the  flaunting  lie, 

Half  mast  the  starry  flag, 
Insult  no  sunny  sky 

With  hate's  polluted  rag." 

This  remarkable  versatility  has  led  to  the  charge 
against  him  that  he  possessed  no  literary  conscience. 
But  this  accusation  was  most  'false.  His  temper,  it  is 
true,  was  mercurial,  and  his  views  would  occasionally 
vary,  but  he  never  prostituted  his  powers  to  sustain  a 
lie  or  to  do  an  injustice.  He  had  no  control  of  many 
of  the  papers  for  which  he  contributed,  and  was  re 
quired  to  furnish  matter  that  accorded  with  the  views 
and  purposes  of  each,  and  so  far  he  had  to  modify  his 
own  sentiments ;  but  nothing  that  he  ever  wrote  was 
in  a  bad  cause  or  for  an  unworthy  object,  and  his  course 
of  action  was  invariably  the  best  that  he  could  follow 
under  the  circumstances;  but  when  he  was  his  own 
master,  and  in  such  publications  as  he  controlled,  his 
conduct  was  guided  by  the  highest  sense  of  duty,  often 
at  great  pecuniary  loss  to  himself,  and  invariably  to  the 
A2 


Biographical  Sketch. 


disgust  of  those  who  would4  have  warped  him  to  their 
meaner  views.  When  the  war  against  the  Union  broke 
out  he  laid  down  the  pen  and  took  up  the  sword. 
Giving  up  all  his  connection  with  the  press,  surrender 
ing  the  liberal  income  which  his  literary  gifts  secured 
to  him,  he  accepted  the  moderate  pay  of  a  lieutenant 
in  the  Sixty-ninth  Regiment,  commanded  by  Colonel 
Corcoran.  He  rapidly  mastered  the  details  of  military 
service,  and  his  peculiar  talents  led  to  his  promotion  to 
the  staff  of  General  Hunter,  with  whom  he  served 
throughout  the  greater  part  of  the  war.  His  duties  as 
adjutant  general,  both  with  General  David  Hunter, 
and  subsequently  with  Major  General  Halleck  when 
he  was  general  in  chief,  were  very  arduous.  Not 
only  did  he  have  the  preparation  of  all  the  official  cor 
respondence,  but  he  had  to  perform  much  literary  work 
for  the  papers  in  moulding  the  public  mind  to  military 
necessities.  At  that  period  the  North  was  in  uncertain 
humor^and  the  government  had  to  feel  its  way  care 
fully,  and  watch,  and,  so  far  as  in  its  power  lay,  guide, 
public  opinion.  In  his  capacity  as  adjutant  general 
he  prepared  for  General  Hunter's  signature  the  first  or 
der  ever  issued  directing  the  enrollment  of  a  negro  reg 
iment,  for  which  he  was  honored  by  the  rebels  by  being 
included  in  the  outlawry  which  was  declared  against 
that  intrepid  soldier,  and  which  directed  the  immediate 
execution  of  both  general  and  adjutant,  if  they  were 
captured. 

Both  the  commanding  officers  with  whom  General 
Halpine  had  served  recognized  his  eminent  merits,  and 
strongly  urged  upon  the  government  that  his  rank 
should  be  advanced,  but  the  Secretary  of  War  utterly 


Biographical  Sketch.  xi 

ignored  their  applications,  and  left  this  patriot  to  the 
last  a  simple  major.  The  reason  for  this  action  the 
party  most  aifected  by  it  could  never  clearly  under 
stand,  but  he  supposed  it  was  due  to  some  informality ; 
that  the  application  was  addressed  to  the  President  in 
stead  of  to  the  Secretary  of  War,  or  for  some  other 
such  trivial  error,  if  error  it  could  be  called ;  for  his 
final  interview  with  the  great  organizer  of  the  war  dis 
pelled  many  of  his  prejudices,  and  caused  a  thorough 
revulsion  of  sentiment  toward  one  whom  he  regarded 
as  his  enemy  for  political  reasons.  His  eyesight,  which 
was  always  weak,  having  failed  from  exposure  and  ex 
cessive  labor,  he  had  twice  sent  in  his  resignation,  ac 
companied  with  the  certificate  of  the  surgeon  that  far 
ther  service  would  probably  result  in  total  blindness. 
These  resignations  were  not  accepted,  although  a  fur 
lough  was  granted  him  on  the  latter — a  furlough  which, 
before  it  was  half  expired,  he  surrendered,  that  he  might 
accompany  General  Hunter  in  his  perilous  expedition 
down  the  Shenandoah  Valley.  When  that  expedition 
returned,  after  enduring  incredible  hardships,  he  again 
applied  to  be  permitted  to  resign,  and  obtained  an  hon 
orable  and  complimentary  acceptance  of  his  resignation 
at  once.  The  last  of  his  doubts  were  removed  when,  in 
spite  of  his  earnest  support  of  M'Clellan  as  the  presi 
dential  candidate  of  the  Democrats  against  Abraham 
Lincoln,  he  was  breveted  lieutenant  colonel,  colonel, 
and  brigadier  general. 

Few  men  sacrificed  more  for  the  cause ;  few  men 
made  less  by  it.  If  he  «had  been  a  son  of  the  soil  he 
could  have  done  no  more,  and  was  baptized  in  fire  and 
blood  as  an  American.  Forever  afterward  he  regarded 


xii  Biographical  Sketch. 

himself  as  a  citizen  by  birthright  and  inheritance  in 
stead  of  by  adoption,  for  he  had  helped  to  save  what 
came  to  others  in  .the  natural  way  and  by  accident. 
He  had  "  paid  a  great  price,"  and  was  entitled  to  all 
the  rights  of  one  "born  free."  His  last  connection 
with  the  army  was  under  General  Dix  in  the  city  of 
New  York,  where  he  had  the  congenial  duty  of  arrest 
ing  and  punishing  bounty  swindlers.  The  frequenters 
of  Lafayette  Hall  had  deep  cause  to  lament  his  fearless 
ness,  unwearying  resolution,  and  irrepressible  energy. 
He  worked  night  and  day  to  bring  the  rascals  to  their 
deserts,  and  his  skill  in  ferreting  out  fraud  and  in  hunt 
ing  down  corrupt  politicians  which  he  had  obtained  in 
other  walks  of  life  was  of  vast  service  to  him. 

It  was  while  he  was  on  the  staff  of  General  Dix  that 
the  articles  from  his  pen  in  the  daily  papers,  exposing 
the  corruptions  of  the  municipal  government,  attracted 
the  attention  of  the  Citizens'  Association,  .which  had 
then  just  inaugurated  its  reform  movements  in  that  city. 
As  soon  as  he  was  released  from  the  army,  application 
was  made  to  him  to  assume  the  conduct  of  THE  CITI 
ZEN  newspaper,  which  had  been  started  by  the  Associa 
tion.  He  accepted  the  position,  and  finally  purchased 
the  entire  journal  and  conducted  it  until  the  time  of 
his  death.  He  used  it  not  only  as  a  vehicle  for  reform 
in  municipal  affairs,  but  as  an  organ  in  party  politics. 
With  its  aid  and  his  own  exertions  he  built  up  under 
the  name  of  the  Democratic  Union  an  organization  op 
posed  to  political  corruption,  and  strengthened  it  by 
his  personal  popularity  till  it>  became  more  powerful 
within  the  sphere  of  its  action  than  Tammany  Hall  it 
self.  But,  even  when  giving  the  larger  part  of  his  at- 


Biographical  Sketch.  xiii 

tention  to  THE  CITIZEN,  he  still  found  time  to  contrib 
ute  many  articles  to  other  papers.  One  of  his  earliest 
connections  with  the  press  was  as  French  translator  for 
the  Herald,  and  from  that  period  to  the  close  of  his  ca 
reer  he  had  relations  of  the  most  intimate  character 
with  that  journal  and  its  editor,  who  from  the  first  ap 
preciated  his  remarkable  and  striking  genius. 

Such  is  a  brief  outline  of  his  career  as  a  journalist. 
His  success  as  a  politician  was  equally  brilliant.  In 
London  he  had  connected  himself  with  the  "Young  Ire 
land  party."  In  this  country  his  first  essay  in  politics 
was  as  the  private  secretary  of  Stephen  A.  Douglas, 
and  by  virtue  of  that  position  he  became  identified  with 
the  leading  political  events  of  that  exciting  period.  In 
consequence  of  his  position  toward  Douglas,  he  natural 
ly  became  the  embassador  between  him  and  Buchanan 
in  the  negotiations  for  a  settlement  of  their  difficulties. 
The  cunning  sage  of  Wheatland,  however,  deceived  him 
and  his  employer,  and  never  did  he  forgive  the  baseness 
of  that  treachery  toward  the  beloved  leader  of  the  Free- 
soil  faction.  It  rankled  in  his  heart,  and  he  could  not 
help  expressing  it  when  a  thoughtless  Republican  Sen 
ate  were  offering  incense  on  the  grave  of  a  double-dyed 
traitor — a  traitor  to  his  friends  and  his  country. 

For  many  years  he  was  a  member,  and  of  course  a 
most  actively  influential  one,  of  the  Tammany  Hall 
General  Committee.  He  was  soon  engaged  in  a  reform 
movement,  and  his  object  of  attack  was  no  other  than 
Fernando  Wood,  so  notorious  as  the  organizer  and  lead 
er  of  corruption  in  the  city  of  New  York,  and  who,  by 
his  skillful  combinations,  maintained  a  bad  eminence 
in  that  city.  The  struggle  was  fierce  and  bitter,  but 


xiv  Biographical  Sketch. 

courage  and  honesty  conquered  duplicity  and  venality, 
and  Halpine  lived  to  rout  his  opponent  and  break  his 
power.  His  admission  to  the  army  removed  him  in  a 
great  measure  from  the  political  arena ;  but  no  sooner 
was  he  free  from  military  duties  and  trammels  than  he 
returned  to  an  employment  that  gave  especial  scope  to 
his  talents.  His  fertility  of  resource  was  wonderful, 
his  combinations  beautiful  and  effective,  and  his  grasp 
of  the  entire  subject  most  masterly.  At  the  period  of 
his  return  to  civil  life,  Tammany  Hall  had  again  fallen 
into  the  slough  of  iniquity,  and,  true  to  his  nature,  he 
commenced  a  battle  against  an  organization  that  had 
once  been  his  political  home.  The  first  brilliant  suc 
cess  of  this  new  combination  was  his  ,own  election  to 
the  Registership,  a  very  lucrative  office,  against  an  ad 
verse  majority  on  other  candidates  of  nearly  fifty  thou 
sand.  This  was  quickly  followed  by  other  triumphs, 
and  at  the  time  of  his  decease  he  was  elaborating 
schemes  and  perfecting  plans  which  would  have  ren 
dered  inevitable  the  defeat  of  his  adversaries  in  the 
then  approaching  election. 

But  Charles  G.  Halpine  was  more  than  a  journalist, 
more  than  a  politician ;  he  was  a  poet  and  an  author 
whose  writings  were  entitled  to  no  mere  fleeting  popu 
larity.  So  occupied  was  he,  however,  that  he  had  neg 
lected  putting  the  great  body  of  these  productions  in 
permanent  form.  He  was  so  hidden  under  the  imper 
sonality  of  newspaper  literature  that  he  was  hardly 
known  to  the  public  at  large  until  the  year  1862,  when 
he  assumed  the  nom  de  plume  of  Miles  O'Reilly.  His 
assumption  of  this  soubriquet  was  merely  accidental, 
and  the  rank  of  "  private  in  the  Forty-seventh  New 


Biographical  Sketch.  xv 

York,"  instead  of  a  similar  place  in  the  Sixty-ninth,  to 
which  he  had  belonged,  came  from  the  fact  that  the 
Forty-seventh  was  the  only  Irish  regiment  at  Hilton 
Head  at  the  date  of  his  military  lyrical  effusions,  and 
it  was  essential  to  his  purpose  to  assume  the  character 
of  an  ignorant  but  well-meaning  Irishman.  His  series 
of  amusing  poems  referring  to  matters  at  Beaufort — or 
pretending  to  be  connected  therewith — were  an  im 
mense  success,  and  made  his  soubriquet  a  household 
word  throughout  the  land — far  more  so  than  his  own 
true  appellation.  But  it  is  not  generally  known  that 
they  were  written  with  a  praiseworthy  object,  and  for 
the  good  of  the  service.  They  were  followed  by  his 
imaginary  banquets  and  other  fancy  sketches,  the  force 
and  purpose  of  which  can  only  be  fully  appreciated  by 
politicians  versed  in  t"he  mysteries  of  New  York  poli 
tics. 

These  entertaining  and  amusing  poetic  effusions,  al 
though  so  effective,  were  the  least  finished  of  his  metric 
al  efforts.  Many  of  his  amatory  sonnets  were  exqui 
site  as  works  of  art,  and  in  their  delicacy  and  force  of 
sentiment.  He  never  ignored  the  passion  which  rules 
the  world,  but  never  made  it  gross  or  prominent.  His 
admiration  for  woman  was  too  pure  and  refined  to  make 
such  a  degradation  of  her  possible  to  his  thoughts  or 
pen.  Many  of  the  finest  of  these  are  almost  lost  to  the 
world,  and  are  only  preserved  in  albums  and  scrap- 
books,  his  life  being  too  full  to  allow  him  time  to  at 
tend  to  the  collection  of  his  productions.  Even  more 
beautiful  than  his  love-songs  were  his  poems  in  memo 
ry  of  the  dead  who  fell  in  the  War  for  the  Union. 
These  were  the  natural  outpourings  of  his  heart ;  as  no 


xvi  Biographical  Sketch. 

soldier  crippled,  sick,  or  out  of  work,  ever  applied  to 
him  in  vain  for  assistance,  so  his  regard  for  the  dead 
was  simple  reverence.  The  poem  on  the  dedication  of 
Gettysburg  is  thrilling,  and  only  surpassed  in  vigor  by 
the  grand  lines  of  his  latest  work  in  commemoration 
of  the  Irish  Legion — a  work  which  gives  evidences  of 
greater  capacity  than  he  had  then  developed,  and  was 
the  promise  of  even  a  higher  career  for  the  future,  had 
his  life  not  been  brought  to  its  sudden  termination. 
The  circumstances  under  which  most  of  his  productions 
were  presented  had  possibly  made  him  occasionally 
careless,  and  it  was  only  for  a  worthy  occasion  that  he 
exerted  his  full  powers. 

He  had  a  slight  knowledge  of  law,  having  been  ad 
mitted  to  the  bar,  and  having  for  some  time  held  the 
position  of  assistant  district  atforney  ;  but  his  knowl 
edge  was  not  thorough,  and  was  rarely,  except  in  this 
instance,,  put  to  any  practical  use.  His  mastery  of  a 
subject  or  a  profession  was,  by  the  aid  of  his  powerful 
memory,  easy  and  rapid ;  but,  unless  he  had  sounded 
it  to  the  bottom,  he  laid  it  aside  entirely. 

As  for  the  circumstances  of  his  death,  although  most 
deplorable,  they  are  perfectly  simple  of  explanation. 
He  had  always  suffered  at  times  from  insomnia,  or  want 
of  ability  to  sleep.  It  had  been  his  habit  to  write 
without  cessation  for  many  hours,  often  for  several  days 
and  nights  in  succession,  without  rest,  until  his  brain 
was  in  so  nervously  excited  a  condition  that  sleep  was 
absolutely  banished.  Then  a  nervine  or  sudorific  was 
absolutely  necessary  to  produce  a  normal  condition  of 
his  system.  At  times  he  took  opiates,  but  of  late  he 
had  used  ether  or  chloroform.  His  medical  studies 


Biographical  Sketch.  xvii 

gave,  him  some  knowledge  of  the  power  of  these  dan 
gerous  drugs,  he  had  seen  them  applied  to  Mrs.  Halpine 
when  suffering  from  violent  hysterical  attacks,  and  he 
used  them  upon  himself  to  produce  lethargy  and  sleep, 
or  even  to  dull  pain. 

For  some  two  weeks  before  his  death  he  had  been  in 
perfect  health,  in  excellent  spirits,  and  in  capital  work 
ing  condition.  Early  in  the  last  week  of  his  life  he  had 
written  his  poem  commemorative  of  the  Irish  Legion, 
and  on  his  final  Saturday  he  was  at  the  office  of  THE 
CITIZEN  until  about  two  o'clock,  in  gayer  humor  and 
more  genial  mood  than  usual,  although  he  was  invaria 
bly  a  charming  companion.  Later  he  was  attacked 
with  violent  pain  in  the  head,  and  he  had  recourse  to 
chloroform.  The  apothecary,  by  a  well-intentioned  but 
unfortunate  error,  gave  him  a  diluted  article  which  had 
no  eifect,  and  which  he  detected  as  deficient  in  strength. 
Then  he  sent  for  more,  and  under  the  delusion  that  it 
also  was  weak  or  adulterated,  while  it  was  actually  of 
full  strength,  inhaled  too  much  of  it  and  became  insen 
sible.  Thus,  by  a  mere  accident,  a  most  important  life 
was  taken  away  from  the  public  at  its  period  of  great 
est  usefulness.  He  died  ere  more  than  half  his  natural 
term  of  activity  had  run,  at  the  age  of  thirty-nine,  at 
a  period  when  his  faculties  were  in  their  most  perfect 
development. 

Such  is  a  brief  outline  of  the  life  and  death  of  a  man 
who  had  few  equals  among  his  contemporaries.  The 
details  are  meagre,  the  statements  bald,  but  they  are 
such  as  our  limits  will  alone  permit.  The  description 
of  the  character  of  him  who  has  gone  from  among  us 
is  far  more  difficult ;  friendship  and  affection  may  guide 
2 


xviii  Biographical  Sketch. 

the  pen,  but  will  scarcely  prove  equal  to  the  task ;  they 
will  fail  not  from  claiming  too  much,  but  by  doing  too 
little  for  one  who  had  great  talents,  many  virtues,  and 
few  faults.  With  the  public  he  was  a  favorite,  among 
his  intimates  he  was  beloved.  He  had  a  thousand 
qualities  to  win  esteem,  not  one  to  cause  dislike  or  even 
coldness.  His  imperfections,  and  they  were  but  as  the 
spots  on  the  sun,  brought  suffering  to  himself  alone. 
He  possessed  the  largest  generosity,  the  strongest  af 
fection,  the  most  faithful  friendship,  the  most  unsullied 
honor,  and  not  a  single  meanness.  He  was  candid, 
straightforward,  honorable,  and  upright ;  contact  with 
the  world  had  not  dimmed  the  purity  of  his  soul.  He 
was  kind,  thoughtful,  gentle,  considerate  to  those  un 
der  him,  frank  and  honest  with  his  comrades. 

Charles  G.  Halpine  from  his  earliest  youth  possessed 
a  power  of  fascination,  was  surrounded  with  an  atmo 
sphere  of  electrical  sympathy  which  it  was  impossible 
for  man  or  woman  to  resist.  He  won  his  way  to  every 
heart  without  an  effort.  Kind  to  others,  he  never  for 
got  a  kindness  to  himself;  open  and  frank,  he  recog 
nized  honesty  and  openness  in  others.  He  had  a  won 
derful  gift  for  creating  friendship,  and  never  in  the  course 
of  his  laborious  life  did  he  fall  into  difficulty  but  some 
one  was  near  who  gladly  reached  him  a  helping  hand. 
If  wronged,  he  was  easily  appeased.  He  was  generous 
to  an  adversary,  was  merciful  to  those  who  were  down ; 
and  never,  in  all  his  many  contests  and  bitter  political 
feuds,  *did  "  he  strike  below  the  belt,"  take  an  unfair  ad 
vantage,  or  pursue  a  victory  into  revengefulness.  He 
died  almost  without  an  enemy,  and  the  press  united  as 
with  one  voice  in  expressions  of  affection  to  his  memory. 


Biographical  Sketch.  xix 

It  was  innate  with  him,  a  part  of  himself  that  he 
could  not  escape  from,  to  oppose  fraud,  venality,  and 
corruption.  Whether  he  was  contending  for  reform  in 
city  politics,  or  ferreting  out  bounty  swindles,  or  guard 
ing  against  the  corruptions  of  the  quartermaster's  de 
partments,  he  was  only  obeying  a  law  of  his  existence. 
He  was  once  offered  a  fortune  by  a  quartermaster  at 
Hilton  Head,  when  he  was  adjutant  general,  and  he  had 
but  to  shut  his  eyes  and  come  home  rich.  The  gov 
ernment  had  utterly  ignored  his  services,  and  he  was 
retained  against  his  will  in  the  army,  and  prevented 
from  earning  a  suitable  income  by  his  independent  ex 
ertions.  It  was  a  sore  temptation,  or  wo^uld  have  been 
to  most  men,  but  he  simply  ordered  the  tempter  under 
arrest,  and  presented  charges  at  Washington.  So  he 
could  at  any  time  have  made  terms  with  his  political 
opponents  in  this  city,  and  secured  any  office  he  want 
ed  ;  and  yet  he  never  swerved  from  his  course,  nor 
even  hesitated  as  to  his  action. 

He  was  generous  to  a  fault.  Appeals  for  charity 
were  almost  irresistible,  although  he  might  have  little 
evidence  that  the  object  was  worthy.  In  this,  as  in 
many  other  matters,  he  was  a  representative — a  high- 
toned  and  noble  one — of  his  race.  Lively,  kind-hearted, 
grateful,  extravagant,  versatile,  inconsequent,  mercuri 
al,  easily  guided  by  his  friends,  he  was  a  thorough  Irish 
gentleman.  Endowed  with  a  wonderful  memory,  facile 
as  wax  to  acquire  an  impression,  like  adamant  to  retain 
it,  and  possessed  of  a  superior  classical  education,  he 
had  the  groundwork  for  his  genius  to  go  upon. 

The  style  of  his  writings  has  been  praised,  but  in  re 
ality  he  cared  nothing  for  style.  He  worked  for  a  pur- 


xx  biographical  Sketch. 

pose.  He  used  his  pen  to  carve  out  a  certain  result, 
and  wonderful  was  the  skill  with  which  he  proceeded. 
This  perception  was  intuitive,  and  the  most  effective 
plans  seemed  to  present  themselves  of  their  own  voli 
tion.  He  made  no  pretense  to  finish  and  adorn  his 
style,  and  rarely  read  his  productions  except  to  correct 
the  proof.  But  he  was  wonderfully  fertile  in  argument 
and  exhaustless  in  variety  of  mode  of  presenting  a 
point.  The  most  remarkable  evidence  of  his  ability  to 
effect  a  purpose,  even  when  that  purpose  was  an  entire 
revulsion  of  public  sentiment,  is  furnished  by  his  song 
"  Sambo's  Right  to  be  Kilt."  That  was  written  to  ac 
custom  the  Irish- — who  had  so  great  a  prejudice  against 
a  negro  that  they  did  not  like  him  even  to  be  killed  in 
the  company  of  white  soldiers — to  the  idea  of  negro 
regiments.  Its  effect  was  as  astonishing  as  its  argu 
ments  were  unanswerable.  Regiments  of  blacks  were 
directly  and  indirectly  a  necessity  of  Northern  success, 
and  their  possibility  was  mainly  due  to  the  wondrous- 
ly  skillful  pen  of  General  Halpine. 

We  have  endeavored  to  give  a  slight  insight  into  the 
character  of  the  deceased  from  the  point  of  view  of  one 
who  knew  him  intimately,  who  understood  him  thor 
oughly,  and  with  whom  he  was  in  perfect  sympathy ; 
but  the  pen  is  feeble  that  attempts  this  last  act  of  friend 
ship.  No  power  can  bring  the  bright  glance  into  the 
eye  that  is  dull  forever ;  the  smile  to  the  lip  that  is  si 
lent  and  closed ;  the  glow  to  the  cheek  that  is  cold  as 
marble.  No  words  can  describe  the  fascination  of  his 
presence,  nothing  explain  the  force  of  his  persuasive 
eloquence,  more  powerful  in  conversation  than  in  dec- 


Biographical  Sketch.  xxi 

lamation.  The  death  of  no  single  individual  in  the 
community  would  have  reached  so  far,  touched  so  many 
hearts,  and  affected  so  many  interests.  His  activity 
had  ramified  into  a  thousand  directions,  and  allied  him 
with  hundreds  of  public  matters,  until  his  death  became 
a  national  calamity.  0 


THE   POETICAL  WORKS 


OF 


CHARLES   GRAHAM   HALPINE. 


POETICAL  WORKS,ETC, 


.      A  VESPER  HYMN.1 

THE  -evening  bells  of  Sabbath  fill 

The  dusky  silence  of  the  night, 
And  through  our  gathering  gloom  distill 

Sweet  sparkles  of  immortal  light ; 

Such  hours  of  peace  as  these  requite 
The  labors  of  the  weary  week ; 

When  thus,  with  souls  refreshed  and  bright, 
Forgiveness  of  our  sins  we  seek  I 

Oh !  help  us,  Jesus,  to  conform 

Our  spirits,  thoughts,  and  lives  to  tjiine ! 
Beyond  this  earthly  strife  and  storm, 

Oh !  make  Thy  star  of  Love  to  shine ! 

When  we  are  sinking  in  the  brine 
Of  doubt  and  care — oh  come,  that  we, 

As  Peter  did,  may  safe  resign 
Our  sinking  helplessness  to  thee  ! 

Thy  Godhood — whence  all  glory  flows — 

Thou  didst  not  scruple  to  abase, 
To  rescue  from  undying  woes 

The  sons  of  a  rebellious  race ! 

Who  can,  unmoved,  unweeping,  trace 
Thy  meek  obedience  to  His  will, 

Whose  sole  appointed  means  of  grace 
Thou  didst,  even  to  the  Cross,  fulfill ! 

Our  wayward  footsteps  wander  wide, 

Pursuing  Joy's  delusive  rays  ; 
And,  in  our  hours  of  health  and  pride, 

Too  oft  from  Thee  our  spirit  strays ; 

But  soon  descend  the  darker  days, 
When  youth  and  strength  their  lustre  hide, 

And,  journeying  through  a  pathless  maze, 
We  turn  to  our  neglected  Guide ! 

B 


26  The  Poetical  Works  of 


Lead  back,  oh  Lord !  thy  wandering  sheep — 

Oh,  guide  us  gently  to  thy  fold ! 
Instruct  us  all  Thy  laws  to  keep, 

And  unto  Thine  our  lives  to  mould ! 

For  we  are  weak,  and  faith  grows  cold— 
Nor  ever  sleep  the  Tempter's  powers ; 

Thou  art  our  only  stay  and  hold — 
Through  Thee  alone  can  heaven  be  ours ! 

A  darker  shade,  a  denser  gloom 
Descends  on  all  the  folded  flowers, 

While,  silent  as  the  voiceless  tomb, 
Above  them  roll  the  midnight  hours : 
To-morrow's  dawn,  and  their  perfume 

Again  will  fill  their  glowing  bowers — 
Lord,  after  death  so  bid  us  bloom, 

Where  no  frost  chills,  no  tempest  lowers ! 


ON  RAISING  A  MONUMENT  TO  THE  IRISH  LEGION.1 

To  raise  a  column  o'er  the  dead, 

To  strew  with  flowers  the  graves  of  those 
Who  long  ago,  in  storms  of  lead, 
And  where  the  bolts  of  battle  sped, 

Beside  us  faced  our  Southern  foes ; 
To  honor  these — the  unshriven,  unhearsed — 

To-day  we  sad  survivors  come, 
With  colors  draped,  and  arms  reversed, 
And  all  our  souls  in  gloom  immersed, 

With  silent  fife  and  muffled  drum. 

In  mournful  guise  our  banners  wave, 

Black  clouds  above  the  "  sun-burst"  lower ; 
We  mourn  the  true,  the  young,  the  brave, 
Who  for  this  land  that  shelter  gave, 

Drew  swords  in  peril's  deadliest  hour — 
For  Irish  soldiers,  fighting  here 

As  when  Lord  Clare  was  bid  advance,  • 

And  Cumberland  beheld  with  fear 
The  old  green  banner  swinging  clear 

To  shield  the  broken  lines  of  France. 

We  mourn  them  ;  not  because  they  die<J 

In  battle,  for  our  destined  race, 
In  every  field  of  warlike  pride, 
From  Limerick's  wall  to  India's  tide, 

Have  borne  our  flag  to  foremost  place ; 


Charles  Graham  Halpine.  27 


As  if  each  sought  the  soldier's  trade, 
While  some  dim  hope  within  him  glows, 

Before  he  dies,  in  line  arrayed, 

To  see  the  old  green  flag  displayed 
For  final  fight  with  Ireland's  foes. 

For  such  a  race  the  soldier's  death 

Seems  not  a  cruel  death  to  die, 
Around  their  names  a  laurel  wreath, 
A  wild  cheer  as  the  parting  breath, 

On  which  their  spirits  mount  the  sky : 
Oh,  had  their  hope  been  only  won — 

On  Irish  soil  their  final  fight, 
And  had  they  seen,  ere  sinking  down, 
Our  Emerald  torn  from  England's  crown,  . 

Each  dead  face  would  have  flashed  with  light ! 

But  vain  are  words  to  check  the  tide 

Of  widowed  grief  and  orphaned  woe : 
Again  we  see  them  by  our  side, 
As  full  of  youth,  and  strength,  and  pride 

They  first  went  forth  to  meet  the  foe ! 
Their  kindling  eyes,  their  steps  elate, 

Their  grief  at  parting  hid  in  mirth ; 
Against  our  foes  no  spark  of  hate — 
No  wish  but  to  preserve  the  state 

That  welcomes  all  the  oppressed  of  earth. 

Not  a  new  Ireland  to  invoke — 

To  guard  the  flag  was  all  they  sought ; 

Not  to  make  others  feel  the  yoke 

Of  Poland,  fell  the  shot  and  stroke 
Of  those  who  in  the  Legion  fought : 

Upon  our  great  flag's  azure  field 
.     To  hold  unharmed  each  starry  gem — 

This  cause  on  many  a  bloody  field, 

Thinned  out  by  death,  they  would  not  yield — 
It  was  the  world's  last  hope  to  them. 

O  ye,  the  small  surviving  band, 

Oh  Irish  race  wherever  spread, 
With  wailing  voice  and  wringing  hand, 
And  the  wild  kaoine  of  the  old  dear  land, 

Think  of  her  Legion's  countless  dead ! 
Struck  out  of  life  by  ball  or  blade, 

Or  torn  in  fragments  by  the  shell, 
With  briefest  prayer  by  brother  made, 
And  rudely  in  their  blankets  laid, 

Now  sleep  the  brave  who  fought  so  well. 


28  The  Poetical  Works  of 


Their  widows — tell  not  them  of  pride, 
No  laurel  checks  the  orphan's  tear ; 
They  only  feel  the  world  is  wide. 
And  dark,  and  hard — nor  help  nor  guide- 
No  husband's  arm,  no  father  near ; 
But  at  their  woe  our  fields  were  won, 

And  pious  pity  for  their  loss 
In  streams  of  generous  aid  should  run 
To  help  them  say  "  Thy  will  be  done," 
As  bent  in  grief  they  kiss  the  Cross. 

Then  for  the  soldiers  and  their  chief 

Let  all  combine  a  shaft  to  raise — 
The  double  type  of  pride  and  grief, 
With  many  a  sculpture  and  relief 

To  tell  their  tale  to  after  days ; 
And  here  will  shine — our  proudest  boast 

While  one  of  Irish  blood  survives — 
"  Sacred  to  that  unfaltering  host 
Of  soldiers  from  a  distant  coast, 

Who  for  the  Union  gave  their  lives : 

"Welcomed  they  were  with  generous  hand ; 

And  to  that  welcome  nobly  true, 
When  War's  dread  tocsin  filled  the  land, 
With  sinewy  arm  and  swinging  brand, 

These  exiles  to  the  rescue  flew ; 
Their  fealty  to  the  flag  they  gave, 

And  for  the  Union,  daring  death, 
Foremost  among  the  foremost  brave, 
They  welcomed  victoiy  and  the  grave 

In  the  same  sigh  of  parting  breath. " 

Thus  be  their  modest  history  penned, 

But  not  with  this  our  love  must  cease ; 
Let  prayers  from  pious  hearts  ascend, 
And  o'er  their  ashes  let  us  blend 

All  feuds  and  factions  into  peace : 
Oh  men  of  Ireland !  here  unite 

Around  the  graves  of  these  we  love, 
And  from  their  homes  of  endless  light 
The  Legion's  dead  will  bless  the  sight, 

And  rain  down  anthems  from  above ! 

Here  to  this  shrine  by  reverence  led, 
Let  Love  her  sacred  lessons  teach ; 
Shoulder  to  shoulder  rise  the  dead, 
From  many  a  trench  with  battle  red, 
And  thus  I  hear  their  ghostly  speech : 


Charles  Graham  Halpine,  29 


"  Oh  for.  the  old  earth,  and  our  sake, 

Renounce  all  feuds,  engendering  fear, 
And  Ireland  from  her  trance  shall  wake, 
Striving  once  more  her  chains  to  break 
When  all  her  sons  are  brothers  here. 

I  see  our  Meagher's  plume  of  green 

Approving  nod  to  hear  the  words, 
And  Corcoran's  wraith  applauds  the  scene, 
And  bold  Mat.  Murphy  smiles,  I  ween — 

All  three  with  hands  on  ghostly  swords — 
Oh  for  their  sake,  whose  names  of  light 

Flash  out  like  beacons  from  dark  shores— 
Men  of  the  old  race !  in  your  might, 
All  factions  quelled,  again  unite — 

With  you  the  Green  Flag  sinks  or  soars ! 


AFTER    THE    BATH.3 

A  PIOTUKE  IN  WATER  OOLOB8. 

Her  skin  is  moist,  and  cold,  and  pink, 

But  warm  and  red  the  lips  I  press, 
And  all  her  beauty  seems  to  shrink 

Compacter  in  her  clinging  dress ; 
While  o'er  her  shoulders  to  the  hip, 

O'er  swelling  bust  and  far  adown, 
In  trailing  gold  the  tresses  drip 

Which  form  at  night  her  braided  crown. 

No  more  her  eyes  in  languor  swim, 

But  kindle  with  coquettish  strife, 
And  every  pulse  in  every  limb 

Seems  throbbing  into  radiant  life ; 
Her  cheek  hath  caught  a  ruddier  stain, 

And  her  small  feet  in  sand  that  sink 
Are  marble-white,  with  many  a  vein 

Down  to  the  almond-nails  of  pink. 

Her  teeth  are  white  as  the  flashing  surf, 

Her  eyes  are  blue  as  the  bay  in  calm, 
And  her  breath  to  the  new-mown  clover  turf 

Is  a  rival  in  its  fragrant  balm ; 
Oh  happy  sea  that  has  held  her  form, 

Oh  happy  sands  by  her  white  feet  pressed — 
With  her  beauty  the  whole  bright  scene  is  warm, 

Her  beauty  of  gesture,  and  face,  and  breast ! 


30  The  Poetical  Works  of 


Proudly  she  stands  in  her  scarlet  dress, 

And  my  eyes  give  a  quiver  and  then  grow  dim 
As  I  gaze  on  her  infinite  loveliness 

Of  delicate  color  and  rounded  limb ; 
And  the  bright  blue  bay  with  its  flitting  sails, 

And  the  silver  sands,  and  the  rocks  of  brown, 
And  the  woods  that  are  dark  on  the  distant  hills, 

And  the  broad  green  meadows  that  slope  adown, 

All  seem  but  a  frame  for  my  lady  bright — 

A  frame  not  worthy  her  matchless  grace — 
Her  lips  of  red,  and  her  eyes  of  light, 

And  the  wonderful  charm  of  her  winsome  face ; 
.  Oh,  here  let  me  lie  and  die  at  her  feet, 

Let  my  soul  in  its  sighs  for  her  pass  away — 
For  my  life  hath  its  climax,  and  death  were  sweet 

With  her  eyes  gazing  down  on  me  here  to-day ! 

My  senses  swoon  into  blissful  trance 

As  her  small,  cool  fingers  touch  my  palm, 
And  through  all  of  my  veins  the  currents  dance 

As  I  feel  on  my  cheek  her  breath  of  balm ; 
All  the  springs  of  my  life  are  in  her  control, 

For  though  faces  more  perfect  I  know  full  well — 
In  rich,  womanly  beauty  of  body  and  soul 

There  are  none  to  compare  with  my  seaside  belle. 

The  brown  rocks  glow  as  she  bounds  along, 

And  the  black  weeds  thrill  in  the  silver  spray, 
And  the  birds  in  the  blue  sing  a  gladder  song 

As  my  lady  walks  by  the  shining  bay ; 
The  waves  that  have  shrined  her  glowing  form 

Have  been  humanized  by  the  saintly  touch, 
And  will  spare  for  her  sake  in  the  next  great  storm 

Some  proud  ship  from  their  clutch. 


THE  MAN  OF  THREESCORE .< 

A   PHILOSOPHIC   BANT. 

Never  grieve  that  youth  flies ! 

So  the  wise 

Mortal  cries. 
All  the  pleasure  of  life 
In  this  one  maxim  lies. 


Charles  Graham  Halpine.  31 


Our  youth  is  most  dear ; 

But  does  not  the  lover 

A  pleasing  pain  suffer, 
And  is  not  his  smile  ever  steeped  in  a  tear  ? 
Never  grieve,  etc. 

To  love  is  to  see 

New  charms  every  hour ; 

But  is  there  a  bower 

Where  sweet  roses  bloom  that  a  thorn  will  not  be  ? 
Never  grieve,  etc. 

Our  spring  time  departs — 

Let  us  laugh  and  not  rage ; 

For  the  laughter  of  age 

Brings  the  sunshine  of  youth  once  again  to  our  hearts. 
Never  grieve,  etc. 

Sixty  summers  have  fled — 

Poor,  idle,  and  gay, 

I  am  wasting  away — 

But  you  can  not  find  thirty  gray  hairs  in  my  head. 
Never  grieve,  etc. 

With  a  girl  to  adore, 

My  godson,  at  twenty, 

Is  satisfied  plenty — 

My  grandmother  lives,  and  I'm  glad  at  threescore. 
Never  grieve,  etc. 

Some  people  assever, 

As  I  have  been  told, 

That  the  world's  growing  old ; 
But,  to  my  eyes,  the  world  is  more  merry  than  ever. 
Never  grieve,  etc. 

Old  Momus,  whose  birth 

May  be  traced  back  for  ages, 

Still  laughs  on  our  pages, 
And  reigns  o'er  us  all  as  the  monarch  of  mirth. 
Never  grieve,  etc. 

Would  not  grief  be  destroyed 

Could  we  rest  us  content 

That  our  pleasures  are  spent, 

And  that,  though  we  have  lost  them,  they  have  been  enjoyed  ? 
Never  grieve,  etc. 


32  The  Poetical  Works  of 


If  my  limbs  grow  so  weak 

That  I  can  not  walk  fast, 

Then  I  hope  at  the  last 

That  the  end  of  my  term  will  be  reached  the  less  quick. 
Never  grieve,  etc. 

And  whene'er  Death  is  pleased 
To  forbid  our  delay, 
Let  us  hasten  away 
As  an  epicure  runs  from  a  fast  to  a  feast ! 

Never  grieve  that  youth  flies ! 
So  the  wise 
Mortal  cries ; 
All  the  pleasure  of  life 
In  this  one  maxim  lies. 


FAKEWELL  TO  CLUB  COMPANIONS. 

Adieu  to  the  glory  of  bachelor  parties, 

The  looseness  of  latch-keys,  the  cards,  and  the  cup; 
Old  Hymen  has  caught  me — so  farewell,  my  hearties ! 

The  game,  as  we  say  in  the  vulgate,  is  up. 
No  more  shall  my  voice,  when  'tis  mellowed  by  sherry. 

Troll  out  the  wild  glee  of  the  "  Grape  and  the  Boar ;" 
Henceforward,  without  me,  be  social  and  merry, 

My  voice  shall  be  heard  in  your  circle  no  more. 

Yet  sometimes,  when  Joy  her  white  curtain  is  flinging 

Between  your  rapt  eyes  and  the  shadows  of  care — 
When  gaming,  and  dancing,  and  drinking,  and  singing 

Usurp  the  bronze  of  the  giant  Despair — 
Let  memory  paint  me  as  once,  in  your  middle, 

I  brimmed  a  full  glass  to  the  toast  of  "The  Fair ;" 
When,  with  trumpet  and  gong,  the  cornopean  and  fiddle, 

We  made  the  dull  folk  of  our  neighborhood  stare. 

Oh,  of  Hymen  beware !     Like  a  lion  he's  waiting 

To  pounce  on  the  careless  who  saunter  along ; 
He  sends  a  young  Cupid,  who,  laughing  and  prating, 

Decoys  us  awray  with  a  smile  and  a  song ; 
He  leads  up  a  path  that  is  bordered  with  roses, 

A  garden  with  every  thing  beautiful  rife ; 
At  the  end  of  the  vista  a  Venus  reposes — 

We  clasp  her — and  Hymen  has  noosed  us  for  life ! 


Charles  Graham  Halpine.  33 


Henceforward  the  fair  one,  whose  mystical  beauty 

Entranced  every  fibre  and  thrilled  every  bone, 
Is  ours  by  the  law,  and  our  business  and  duty 

Becomes  to  love  her,  and  to  love  her  alone ; 
But,  you  see,  to  the  heart  so  abhorrent  is  bondage, 

It  hates  because  right  what  'twould  love  were  it  wrong ; 
And  the  path,  all  so  green  in  our  youth  and  our  fond  age 

Grows  thorny,  and  tedious,  and  dreary,  and  long. 

I'm  married,  alas !  and,  of  course,  I  am  happy — 

The  married,  you  know,  they  must  "all happy  be ;" 
But  I  think  of  the  nights  when  we  "bowsed  at  the  nappy," 

And  drop  a  few  tears  in  my  third  cup  of  tea ; 
No  more  shall  the  polka's  bewildering  gyrations 

Inspire  the  warm  lips  till  they  whisper  of  love ; 
I  must  sit  down  sedately  and  shun  such  temptations, 

With  my  thoughts — or  my  eyes,  at  least — fastened  above ! 

And  don't,  if  you  call — this  for  my  sake,  remember!— 

Don't  whisper  a  word  of  the  nights  we  have  had ; 
Declare  I  was  always  as  cold  as  December, 

A  youth  much  religious,  and  gentle,  and  sad ; 
A  man  who  detested  all  noise  and  confusion, 

Who  cried  that  a  polka  was  flagrant  and  vain, 
And  would  never  permit  even  the  slightest  infusion 

Of  brandy  or  wine  the  pure  element  stain. 

Above  all,  not  a  word  of  the  girl  of  the  ballet 

You  found  in  my  rooms  when  you  called  rather  late  ;    • 
Never  venture  a  hint  about  Laura  or  Sally — 

Be  silent,  in  mercy,  and  "mum"  about  Kate ! 
But  tell  her  I  loved  still  to  linger  and  dandle 

The  whole  evening  long  o'er  religion  and  tea  ; 
Describe  me  a  pattern  young  man,  and  a  model 

Of  all  that  a  husband  should  properly  be ! 


LINES 

ON  BEADING  IN  A  LETTER  FROM  PAEI8  THAT  "LOUIS  NAPOLEON  SPENDS  HIS 
EVENINGS  EITHER  PLAYING  BACKGAMMON  WITH  THE  EMPBESS,  OR  EXAMIN 
ING  THE  PRIVATE  REPORTS  OF  THE  CHIEF  OF  POLICE." 

Spirit  of  him  who  drove  afar 

Rebellion's  hydra-headed  brood, 
And  quenched  the  torch  of  civil  war 

In  tides  of  foreign  blood ! 

3  B  2 


34  The  Poetical  Works  of 


Thou,  in  whose  ears  the  dying  groans 

Of  old  Tradition  ever  sounded,. 
Thou,  at  whose  step  the  reeling  thrones 

Of  Europe  fell  confounded  ! 

Spirit  of  him  whose  mind  did  forge 

At  once  the  weapon  and  the  chain  — 
The  prince  of  princes,  and  the  scourge 

Of  all  who  were  too  weak  to  reign  ; 
Behold  this  jackal  of  renown, 

Who  from  your  name  its  glory  snatches  . 
This  mannikin  beneath  your  crown  — 

This  "  king  of  shreds  and  patches  !" 

France  weeps  beneath  the  idiot  sway 

Of  shaveling  priests  and  jeweled  fools  ; 
The  Cross  of  Honor  is  the  pay 

For  Tyranny's  most  abject  toojs  ; 
The  land  that  couched  the  freest  lance 

Now  fears  the  informer's  sightless  arrow; 
The  eagle  of  imperial  France 

Has  dwindled  to  a  sparrow  ! 

And  he  who  staggered  to  a  throne 

Through  broken  oaths  and  civic  broil, 
*  Who  sought  his  perjury  to  atone 

By  drenching  red  the  Roman  soil  ; 
This  dwarf,  tricked  out  with  seven-league  boots, 

This  king  of  thimble-rigging  science  — 
This  rat,  who  gnaws  the  hoarded  fruits 

Designed  to  foster  lions. 

This  perjurer,  robber,  murderer,  all  — 

Religion's  curse  and  manhood's  jibe, 
Whose  only  battle  is  a  ball, 

Whose  only  victory  is  a  bribe  — 
This  rushlight  that  would  be  a  star 

(Oh,  Jupiter  !     Immortal  Ammon  !  ) 
Foregoes  the  glorious  game  of  war 

For  one  of  mild  backgammon. 

His  bulletins  police  reports, 

His  aid-de-camp  the  mousing  spy, 
Falsehood  the  passport  to  his  courts, 

His  life  one  long-continued  lie  ; 
And  this  was  all  the  First  did  win 

By  Titan  toil  and  daily  battles, 
And  such  "  the  pea.  that  now  within 

The  giant's  helmet  rattles!" 


Charles  Graham  Halpine.  (       35 


QUAKERDOM. 

THE  FORMAL  CALL. 

Through  her  forced,  abnormal  quiet, 

Flashed  the  soul  of  frolic  riot, 
And  a  most  malicious  laughter  lighted  up  her  downcast  eyes ; 

All  in  vain  I  tried  each  topic, 

Ranged  from  polar  climes  to  tropic — 
Every  commonplace  I  started  met  with  yes-or-no  replies. 

For  her  mother — stiff  and  stately, 

As  if  starched  and  ironed  lately — 
Sat  erect,  with  rigid  elbows  bedded  thus  in  curving  palms ; 

There  she  sat  on  guard  before  us, 

And  in  words  precise,  decorous,  • 

And  most  calm,  reviewed  the  weather,  and  recited  several  psalms.. 

How  without  abruptly  ending 

This  my  visit,  and  offending 
Wealthy  neighbors,  was  the  problem  which  employed  my  mental  care ; 

When  the  butler,  bowing  lowly, 

Uttered  clearly,  stiffly,  slowly, 

"Madam,  please,  the  gardener  wants  you" — Heaven,  I  thought,  has 
heard  my  prayer. 

"  Pardon  me !"  she  grandly  uttered ; 

Bowing  low,  I  gladly  muttered, 
"Surely,  madam !"  and,  relieved,  I  turned  to  scan  the  daughter's  face : 

Ha !  what  pent-up  mirth  outflashes 

From  beneath  those  penciled  lashes ! 

How  the  drill  of  Quaker  custom  yields  to  Nature's  brilliant  grace. 
• 

Brightly  springs  the  prisoned  fountain 

From  the  side  of  Delphi's  mountain 
When  the  stone  that  weighed  upon  its  buoyant  life  is  thrust  aside ; 

So  the  long-enforced  stagnation 

Of  the  maiden's  conversation 
Now  imparted  five-fold  brilliance  to  its  ever-varying  tide. 

Widely  ranging,  quickly  changing, 

Witty,  winning,  from  beginning 
Unto  end  I  listened,  merely  flinging  in  a  casual  word ; 

Eloquent,  and  yet  how  simple ! 

Hand  and  eye,  and  eddying  dimple, 
Tongue  and  lip  together  made  a  music  seen  as  well  as  heard. 


36  The  Poetical  Works  of 


When  the  noonday  woods  are  ringing, 

All  the  birds  of  summer  singing, 
Suddenly  there  falls  a  silence,  and  we  know  a  serpent  nigh  : 

So  upon  the  door  a  rattle 

Stopped  our  animated  tattle, 
And  the  stately  mother  found  us  prim  enough  to  suit  her  eye. 


MY  TOAST.5 

"THE  FIRST,  LAST,  AND  ONLY  GIBL  i  EVER  LOVED." 

Her  hair  is  like  a  field  of  wheat 

By  autumn  tinged  with  glistening  yellows ; 
Her  clear  blonde  face  is  always  sweet, 
Her  little  waist  is  round  and  neat, 
And  plump  her  bust,  and  small  her  feet — 
Come,  boys !  "  To  Lucie  Ellice !" 

Her  gentle  hands  of  tapering  white— 

The  rings  that  touch  them  make  me  jealous ! 
Her  ripe  red  lips  are  with  smiles  bedight, 
Her  large  blue  eyes  have  a  swimming  light. 
And  her  fair  soft  skin  with  health  is  bright — 
We  drink  to  Lucie  Ellice ! 

Elastic  as  the  delicate  vine 

That  sways  in  June  from  the  vineyard  trellis ; 
Her  step  is  dainty,  her  touch  is  fine, 
And  her  breath  is  sweet  as  the  perfumed  wine 
Which  the  votarist  kisses  before  the  shrine — 
Even  such  is  Lucie  Ellice ! 

And  then  her  voice !     You  mayhap  have  heard, 

As  dawn  in  the  East  to  crimson  mellows 
(While  the  dews  on  the  roses  are  yet  unblurred, 
And  the  gossamer  web  on  the  grass  unstirred), 
The  song  of  the  lark  as  aloft  it  whirred — 
'Twas  the  voice  of  Lucie  Ellice ! 

And  her  soul — 'tis  a  spirit  of  subtle  flame, 

That  kindles  and  softens,  illumes  and  mellows  -r 
'Tis  an  essence  pervading  and  thrilling  her  frame, 
And  'tis  from  it  her  wonderful  gentleness  came — 
Her  grace,  and  her  beauty,  and  all  that  I  name, 
When  we  drink  to  Lucie  Ellice ! 


Charles  Graham  Halpine.  37 


But  Fortune  is  cruel,  and  Love  is  blind — 

Cruel  and  blinded  the  fables  tell  us ; 
For  with  hearts  revolting  are  hands  resigned, 
And  the  flowers  are  sundered  that  should  have  twined, 
And  darkly  we  drift  on  the  path  assigned, 
As  I  drift  from  Lucie  Ellice ! 

Oh,  give  me  a  ruff  that  once  touched  her  throat, 

And  I  ask  no  gems  from  a  royal  palace  j 

Give  me  a  ribbon  that  once  did  float 

Where  the  swelling  lines  her  form  denote, 

Then  send  me  to  die  in  some  land  remote, 

My  last  thought — "Lucie  Ellice!" 

But  why  should  I  offer  so  pure  a  toast 

To  the  grosser  ears  of  my  feasting  fellows  ? 
To  have  seen  her  but  twice  is  all  my  boast ; 
So  back  to  our  euchre,  and  call  the  host, 
And  that  lad  shall  be  king  who  can  drink  the  most 
To  the  health  of  my  Lucie  Ellice ! 


BELLE  OF  THE  BALL. 

Oh,  Lady  of  Kinsa ! 

Dear  girl  of  my  heart, 
With  your  teeth  of  cut  pearl 

Where  the  crimson  lips  part ; 
And  a  breast  o'er  whose  white  hills 

With  beauty  aglow 
The  blue  veinlets  wander 

Like  streams  through  the  snow. 
How  proud  is  her  glance, 

Yet  how  kindly  to  all, 
As  they  halt  in  the  dance 

For  my  Belle  of  the  Ball. 

My  Lady  of  Kinsa ! 

How  royal  her  grace, 
Yet  how  bright  and  how  gentle, 

And  winsome  her  face ; 
And  her  eyes,  large  and  blue, 

Are  as  soft  as  a  fawn's, 
And  her  smile  is  as  genial 

As  midsummer  dawns ; 


38  The  Poetical  Works  of 


And  her  wealth  of  brown  hair- 
See  its  hues  rise  and  fall, 

Golden,  chestnut,  and  fair — 
In  my  Belle  of  the  Ball. 

My  Lady  of  Kinsa ! 

In  silver  and  green, 
By  the  sceptre  of  beauty 

A  true  Irish  queen  ; 
As  she  raises  her  train, 

For  the  dancers  are  fleet, 
See  how  small  in  their  white 
*    Satin  buskins  her  feet ; 
Oh !  to  be  but  caressed 

By  the  white  arms  that  fall 
To  the  partner  now  blessed 

By  my  Belle  of  the  Ball ! 

My  Lady  of  Kinsa! 

The  clover  that  dips 
To  the  scythe  has  no  perfume 

To  equal  your  lips ; 
And  your  little  pink  ears 

Crown  an  ivory  neck 
Which  the  jewels  of  empire 

Might  worthily  deck ; 
And  your  voice  is  as  bland 

As  the  murmur  of  streams, 
And  the  touch  of  your  hand 

Is  the  thrill  of  my  dreams ; 
And  I  glow  in  each  pulse 

As  I  bow  to  the  thrall 
Of  my  beauty  of  Kinsa — 

My  Belle  of  the  BaU. 


TO  SHERIDAN. 

FROM  ONE  WHO  LOVES  HIM  VERY  DEABLY. 

Phil  Sherry  was  of  knightly  build, 

A  soldier  of  renown, 
His  sabre  flashed  on  many  a  field, 

His  flag  o'er  many  a  town ; 
And  when  the  limbs  to  weakness  grow 

Now  filled  with  youthful  flame, 
Our  children's  children  yet  shall  glow 

To  bold  Phil  Sherry's  name. 


Charles  Graham  Halpine.  39 


With  stormy  oath  and  bugle-blast, 

And  eyes  of  kindling  fire", 
When  the  skies  of  war  were  overcast, 

And  hope  might  well  expire, 
Our  Phil  with  gleaming  hand  and  heel 

Led  on  his  fiery  flock, 
And  the  victor  foe  would  turn  and  reel 

Beneath  his  desperate  shock. 

Who  has  not  heard,  with  tears  and  smiles, 

Of  the  hot  and  headlong  ride, 
When,  after  twenty  galloping  miles, 

He  checked  the  rebel  tide  ? 
And  how,  when  Lee  was  brought  at  length 

To  final  bay  or  flight, 
'Twas  Phil  that  hurled  our  final  strength, 

And  won  our  final  fight  ? 

Oh,  gallant  leader  of  the  brave, 

Whose  fame  for  aye  endures, 
Soil  not  the  crest  that  victory  gave 

By  work  that  is  not  yours. 
Leap  in  the  saddle  once  again, 

Let  your  wild  plumes  outflow. 
Nor  help  to  crush  the  beaten  men 

Who  sank  beneath  your  blow. 

To  baser  hands,  to  meaner  souls, 

Kesign  the  odious  task — 
'Tis  love  this  passionate  cry  controls, 

'Tis  for  your  fame  I  ask. 
I  want  you  still  an  image  high, 

Niched  in  my  heart — its  king ; 
Oh,  once  more  let  your  pennons  fly, 

Let  " boots  and  saddles" ring!" 

You  were  not  framed — the  soul  God  placed 

Within  your  fiery  clay — 
That  rarest  gift  of  heaven  to  waste 

In  the  wranglings  of  to-day ; 
The  base  intrigues,  the  ready  lies, 

The  cold  and  coward  hates—: 
The  barb  that  in  the  darkness  flies, 

The  pitfall  at  the  gates  • 

Thes,e  form  the  politician's  trade — 

Too  base  for  you  to  know ; 
To  fight  deceit  you  were  not  made — 

You  need  a  manlier  foe ; 


40  The  Poetical  Works  of 


And  I  tell  you,  Phil,  I'd  rather  seek 
For  friends  in  the  foes  we  fought, 

Than  trust  any  ' '  loyal"  Southern  sneak 
Whom  success  to  our  side  has  brought. 


TO  RAYMOND  ON  HIS  TRAVELS. 

Oh,  your  boat  is  at  the  pier, 

And  your  passage  has  been  paid, 
But  before  you  go,  my  dearest  dear, 

Accept  this  serenade ! 
For  with  friendliness  we  burn, 

And  rejoicing  come  the  rhymes 
To  toast  the  health  and  safe  return 

Of  him  who  rules  the  Times ! 

To  toast  the  health  and  safe  return 
Of  him  who  rules  the  Times. 

If  we  all  could  get  away 

From  this  town  of  cares  and  frets, 
To  wander  round  the  Elysees, 

And  kiss  the  gay  grisettes, 
Such  skedaddling  there  would  be 

As  was  never  known  before— 
Ten  thousand  steamers  out  at  sea, 

And  not  a  man  on  shore ! 

Ten  thousand  steamers  out  at  sea, 
And  not  a  man  on  shore ! 

But  oh !  delusive  dream, 

For  us  no  chance  remains  ; 
Mere  drudges  of  the  desk  we  seem, 

With  dull  and  throbbing  brains  ; 
But,  though  we  must  stay  at  home 

To  earn  the  painful  dimes, 
Let  us  all  rejoice  that  he  can  roam — 

Our  brother  of  the  Times ! 

Let  us  all  rejoice  that  he  can  roam — 
Our  brother  of  the  Times ! 

Oh,  safely  may  he  sail, 

And  safely  sail  he  back ; 
His  virtue  like  a  proof-of-mail, 

To  ward  off  each  attack ; 


Charles  Graham  Halpine.  41 


No  beauty  of  the  Boulevard, 
Or  nymph  of  other  climes, 
To  win  even  half  a  thought's  regard 
From  him  who  rules  the  Times ! 

To  win  even  half  a  thought's  regard 
From  him  who  rules  the  Times ! 

Were  I  Marble  of  the  World, 

Or  young  Bennett  debonair, 
Do  you  think  I'd  see  his  sails  unfurled, 

And  not  his  voyage  share  ? 
By  this  wine-cup  in  my  hand, 

By  my  hope  of  famous  rhymes, 
My  foot  should  tfuit  Manhattan  strand 

With  him  who  rules  the  Times ! 

My  foot  should  quit  Manhattan  strand 
With  him  who  rules  the  Times ! 


THE  TWO  VOICES. 

FIRST   VOICE. 

Of  all  light  troubles  to  heart  or  head, 
The  lightest  of  troubles  are  from  the  dead. 

SECOND   VOICE. 

False  teacher,  no !     All  griefs  I  crave, 

Save  the  grief  that  whispers  me  from  the  grave. 

FIRST   VOICE. 

The  grave  is  silent,  and  death  is  dumb ; 

No  hint  of  reproach  from  the  dead  may  come. 

SECOND   VOICE. 

The  living  accuse  us  of  folly  or  crime, 

But  the  white  ghosts  whisper  us  all  the  time. 

FIRST   VOICE. 

The  living  can  witness  with  threatening  eyes, 
But  never  a  witness  from  death  may  rise. 

SECOND  VOICE. 

Cruel  and  coldly  your  thoughts  keep  track, 
But  I'd  give  my  life  could  the  dead  come  back. 

FIRST  VOICE. 

A  source  of  division,  of  care,  and  dread — 
Why  seek  to  recall  the  now  happy  dead  ? 


42  The  Poetical  Works  of 


SECOND   VOICE. 

To  breathe  a  few  farewell  words  in  the  ear, 
" In  heaven  try  forgive  any  wrongs  done  here." 

»       FIRST  VOICE. 

Regrets  for  the  dead  can  but  torture  the  heart — 
Whether  living  or  dead,  you  were  forced  to  part. 

SECOND   VOICE. 

Living,  though  seas  might  between  us  roll, 

We  would  still  have  communion  of  soul  with  soul. 

FIRST   VOICE. 

And  your  life  would  wither,  your  head  turn  gray, 
With  the  sorrows  that  Destiny  cast  in  your  way. 

SECOND   VOICE. 

Oh,  sainted  and  loved !  could  I  call  back  thine, 
How  gladly  the  burden  of  life  I'd  resign ! 

FIRST  VOICE. 

The  living  may  change,  but  the  dead  abide 
In  the  passion  that  crowned  them  as  they  died. 

SECOND  VOICE. 

Had  the  years  estranged  us  and  changed  the  heart, 
It  were  gentle ;  but  death  tore  us  roughly  apart. 

FIRST  VOICE. 

But  a  living  change  were  a  little  woe ; 
The  love  that  died  loving  must  ever  glow. 

SECOND  VOICE. 

Ob,  friend !  that  was  thought  in  a  kindlier  vein — 
All  my  joys  in  the  grave  of  the  dead  remain. 

FIRST  VOICE. 

The  soul  is  immortal— the  body  dies ; 
The  dead  smile  down  pity  with  holy  eyes. 

SECOND   VOICE. 

I  try  to  believe  it — to  see  the  dead  stand 
As  my  guardian  angel  in  God's  bright  land. 

FIRST  VOICE. 

So  think !     And,  thinking  it,  henceforth  move 
That  the  dead  beholding  you  may  approve. 


Charles  Graham  Halpine.  43 


SECOND   VOICE. 

I  shall  try,  my  friend ;  but  a  cold,  dumb  pain 
Swims  up  from  the  soul  to  the  clouded  brain  ; 
And  I'd  give — had  I  power — all  beneath  the  sky 
For  the  dead  to  revive,  and  myself  to  die ! 


A  BREEZY  DISSERTATION. 

Two  breezes  in  the  forest  met 

A  little  way  from  town, 
The  one  was  blowing  up  to  it, 

The  other  blowing  down ; 
They  whispered  kindly  through  the  trees, 

Through  foliage,  branch,  and  fork — 
And  that  one  was  a  country  breeze, 

And  this  was  from  New  York. 

They  tossed  the  crimson  leaves  about, 

And  whirling  danced  around, 
They  laughed  to  see  the  forest  rout 

Fall  eddying  to  the  ground ; 
To  shaking  nests  and  stripping  boughs, 

And  such  like  sports  they  fell, 
Till,  tired  at  last,  one  sajd,  "Suppose 

What  each  has  seen  we  tell." 

The  country  breeze — the  sweeter  far — 

Full  pleasantly  replied, 
"I've  driven  upon  my  cloudy  car 

O'er  landscapes  far  and  wide. 
I've  seen  the  harvest  gathered  home 

By  ruddy  men  and  maids, 
I've  cooled  me  in  the  cascade's  foam, 

And  slept  in  quiet  glades. 

"But  most  of  all  I  loved  to  force 

My  way  through  those  old  woods, 
Upon  whose  murmurs,  warm  and  hoarse, 

No  human  voice  intrudes ; 
"Pis  pleasant,  too,  to  breast  the  top 

Of  yonder  snow-clad  hills, 
Then  down  into  the  valleys  drop, 

And  chase  the  flying  rills. 

"O'er  lakes  that  slumbered  in  the  sun 
Like  mirrors  broad  and  bright, 

My  path  has  been  a  pleasant  one 
Of  perfume  and  of  light. 


44  The  Poetical  Works  of 


And  now  I  seek  the  city — there 

I  hear  are  glorious  tilings — 
Come,  tell  to  me,  my  sister  fair, 

Where  you  have  spread  your  wings." 

So  loudly  then  the  other  sighed, 

She  made  the  branches  sway ; 
The  squirrel,  perching  overhead, 

Affrighted,  leaps  away : 
' '  Oh,  sister !  bless'd  hath  been  your  lot ; 

Far  different  mine  hath  been  ; 
Now  hear  my  tale,  and  you  will  not 

Desert  the  forest  green. 

"Condemned  by  fate,  I  wandered  round 

Yon  pile  of  smoky  brick, 
And  men  and  mud  were  all  I  found, 

And  both  have  made  me  sick ; 
The  towering  chimneys  volumed  forth 

A  choking  cloud  above, 
And,  looked  I  south,  east,  west,  or  north, 

I  saw  not  aught  to  love. 

"I  fanned  the  cheek  of  brilliant  girls, 

And  kissed  away — their  paint ; 
I  danced  through  many  a  dandy's  curls, 

And  caught  their  soiling  taint ; 
From  wretched  rooms  and  filthy  streets 

One  reeking  vapor  rose, 
And,  mingling  with  these  city  sweets, 

The  sound  of  shrieks  and  blows. 

"  At  every  corner  hideous  men 

With  curses  rent  the  air — 
Creatures  whom  neither  tongue  nor  pen 

To  paint  in  full  would  dare ; 
I  heard  the  wife's  expiring  shriek 

As  the  wretch  drove  home  his  knife, 
And  saw  some  scenes  I  dare  not  speak 

In  yonder  city's  life." 

The  country  breeze  would  hear  no  more — 
Away  the  sisters  fled ; 

The  wood  shook  down  o'er  each  a  crown 
Of  foliage,  brown  and  re*l : 

And  now  round  some  primeval  lake, 
O'er  hills  and  pastures  bare, 

Their  freshening  flight  those  breezes  take- 
Would  I  were  with  them  there ! 


Charles  Graham  Halpine.  45 


A  CALIFORNIAN  DITTY. 

When  lovely  Araminter  Jones — 
She  always  was  a  gadder — 

Did  marry,  then  I  took  my  bones 
To  the  Seeraw  Neevadder. 

My  pick  it  seemed  to  have  a  charm, 

So  quickly  did  I  pocket 
Enough  to  buy  a  jolly  farm, 

To  build  a  house  and  stock  it. 

The  gold  became  my  child  apace, 

And  I  did  rock  its  cradle, 
And  for  to  clean  its  yaller  face 

I  used  both  pan  and  ladle. 

And  day  by  day  the  bright  sun  rolled 

Above  a  larger  treasure, 
And  day  by  day,  in  gathering  gold, 

I  took  a  wilder  pleasure. 

The  miners  called  me  stingy  Sam 
Because  I  played  no  euchre, 

But  yet  I  was  not  then,  nor  am 
The  slave  of  filthy  lucre. 

There's  no  man  that  can  see  the  heart, 

The  bosom  has  no  winder, 
Else  had  they  seen,  from  gold  apart, 

The  love  of  Araminter. 

I  vowed  revenge  against  that  prig— 
Her  husband,  he — Joe  Slammers ; 

He  is  a  cove  as  wears  a  wig, 

Is  lame,  and  squints,  and  stammers. 

I  swore  that  Mrs.  S.  some  day 
Should  envy  me  prodigious ; 

I'd  live  beside  her,  and  display 
What  might  have  been  her  riches. 

I'd  lend  her  husband  money,  and 
I  then  would  prosecute  him : 

Were  he  in  that  auriferous  land, 
'Twould  be  no  sin  to  shoot  him. 


46  The  Poetical  Works  of 


For  this  it  was  I  drove  my  stakes 

Away  on  Feather  River — 
Lord !  but  I  had  the  ager  shakes, 

And  suffered  from  my  liver ! 

At  length,  with  forty  thousand  clear, 
I  shipped  among  the  sailors ; 

One  April  day  I  landed  here, 
And  went  into  a  tailor's. 

I  told  him  that  I  wanted  all 
My  clothes  of  brightest  colors, 

The  largest  patterns — nothing  small — 
They  cost  two  hundred  dollars. 

With  brooches  and  with  golden  chains, 

And  rings  upon  my  fingers, 
I  looked,  as  do  upon  the  plains, 

Them  gaudy  birds — flamingers. 

I  started  off,  as  luck  did  hap, 

To  see  my  Araminter — 
I  seed  her  in  a  widder's  cap, 

A-sittin'  at  the  winder ! 

She  told  me  that  her  husband,  Joe, 

The  very  morn  of  marriage, 
Had  tripped  and  broke  his  precious  neck 

A-gittin'  in  the  carriage. 

And  how,  although  she  bid  me  go 

When  the  night  was  dark  and  clammy, 

She  always  loved  me  more  than  Joe, 
And  then  she  called  me  "  Sammy !" 


DELMONICO'S  DEE  AM.7 

HIS  APOLOGY  ANJ>  EXPLANATION  TO  BOYAL  PHELPS  AND   THE  SPOETSMEN'S 

CLUB  FOB  SHEEIDAN'S  TROUT  OUT  OF  SEASON. 

Alas !  my  sin  hath  found  me  out, 
For,  while  away,  unhappy  man ! 
My  caterer  served  unseasoned  trout 

To  bold  Phil  Sheridan ! 
And  Roosevelt  frowns,  and  Brady  smiles, 

And  young  "Jim  Bennett,"  too,  was  there, 
And  Russell  Young,  and  Private  Miles, 
*          With  Raymond  in  the  chair. 


Charles  Graham  Halpine.  47 


Since  then,  on  all  the  winds  about 

The  arch  of  heaven  my  crime  is  blown — 
"'Tis  he  that  cooked  the  unseasoned  trout — 

'Tis  he,  and  he  alone!" 
That  murdered  fish  pursues  my  sight, 

Flapping  its  tail,  and  cries  "False  host!" 
And,  starting  in  cold  sweats  at  night, 
I  see  the  troutly  ghost. 

Then  other  sights  awake  my  fears, 

For  soon  the  Sportsmen's  Club  are  out, 
With  gaffs,  breech-loaders,  rods,  and  spears, 

In  vengeance  for  the  trout ! 
For  pardon,  mercy,  vain  to  wish, 

For  still  they  cry — that  vengeful  train — 
"  Remember,  Del,  this  piteous  fish 
Was  out  of  season  slain !" 

"  In  silver  brook,  in  lilied  pool, 

Beneath  brown  boulders  jutting  out, 
Where  trees  and  tumbling  rills  were  cool, 

Dwelt  happily  our  trout ; 
A  speckled  beauty  for  his  bride, 
In  orange  silk  and  silver  lawn, 
With  not  one  care  beneath  the  tide 
Except  to  love  and  spawn ! 

*'  But  as  on  Denmark's  royal  prop, 
Taking  his  orchard-sleep  at  noon, 
False  Claudius  crept,  and  down  did  drop 

The  leprous  hebenoon — 
So  on  our  trout's  unguarded  hour 

(Who  deemed  our  game-laws  were  not  vain) 
Thy  poacher  crept,  and  sought  the  bower 
Where  dwelt  this  happy  twain. 

"How  gleam  their  silver  sides  below, 

How  calm  the  kiss  of  throbbing  gills, 
As  o'er  the  bank,  with  caution  slow, 

Thy  peering  poacher  wheels ! 
One  splash !  the  bride  remains — but  oh  ! 

She  sees  the  gaff  her  lord  impale, 
And  now  in  weeds  of  troutly  woe 
She  wags  her  futile  tail. 

"From  March  through  all  the  breezy  spring, 

When  violets  first  are  leaping  out, 

'Twas  thine,  with  flies  upon  the  wing, 

To  tempt  and  slay  our  trout. 


4:8  The  Poetical  Works  of 


But — in  November !  oh,  'tis  worse 

Than  all  the  crimes  at  which  men  flout ; 
And  cursed  be  he  with  Cromwell's  curse 
Who  kills  unseasoned  trout ! 

"  The  glorious  summer  days  were  thine, 
Their  crimson  dawns  and  skies  of  blue, 
With  supple  rod,  and  curling  line, 

And  flies  of  varied  hue — 
Yea !  till  September  browned  the  corn, 
Rounding  the  golden  pumpkins  out, 
'Twas  thine — without  reproach  or  scorn — 
To  chase  the  speckled  trout. 

' '  But  thou  hast  done  a  deed  of  woe 

That  sets  a  blister  on  thy  fame, 
If  custom  hath  not  brazed  it  so 
That  it  be  dead  to  shame ; 
A  deed  that  blurs  the  modest  grace, 

Plucks  off  the  rose,  bids  virtue  doubt ; 
For  it  was  here,  Del,  in  this  place, 
You  served  unseasoned  trout !" 


From  dreams  like  this  I  panting  start — 

Oh,  will  the  morning  never  come  ? 
And  through  the  long,  still  night  my  heart 

Beats  like  a  Southern  drum ! 
Spare  me !  'tis  at  my  caterer's  door 

The  fault  should  lie,  and  not  at  mine, 
And  on  unseasoned  trout  no  more 
Shall  breakfast  guest  of  mine ! 

For  I  a  sportsman  am,  as  true 

As  Barrett,  Beebe,  or  Seth  Green, 
And  Walton's  pleasure  oft  pursue 
Where  Islip's  ponds  are  seen. 
Besides— and  let  each  Cockney  swell, 

Who  loves  not  sport,  accept  this  reason — 
That  bad  for  health,  in  taste  and  smell, 

Are  trout  when  out  of  season ! 
By  order  of  Major  Gen.  DELMONICO. 

Commanding  Caterer  of  Xew  York. 
MILES  O'REILLY, 

Asst.  Bottle  Opener  and  Chief  of  Staff. 


Charles  Graham  Halpine.  49 


MY  BROKEN  MEERSCHAUM. 

Old  pipe,  now  battered,  bruised,  and  brown, 
With  silver  spliced  and  linked  together, 

With  hopes  high  up  and  spirits  down, 
I've  puffed  thee  in  all  kinds  of  weather  ; 

And  still  upon  thy  glowing  lid, 
'Mid  carving  quaint  and  curious  tracing, 

Beneath  the  dust  of  years  half  hid, 
The  giver's  name  mine  eye  is  tracing. 

When  thou  wert  given  we  were  as  one, 

Who  now  are  two,  and  widely  sundered — 
Our  feud  the  worst  beneath  the  sun, 

Where  each  believed  the  other  blundered. 
No  public  squall  of  anger  burst 

The  moorings  of  our  choice  relation — 
'Tis  the  dumb  quarrel  that  is  worst, 

Where  pride  forbids  an  explanation. 

Old  pipe !  had  then  thy  smoky  bowl 

A  tongue  that  could  to  life  have  started — 
Knowing  the  secrets  of  my  soul, 

In  many  a  midnight  hour  imparted — 
Thy  speech,  perchance,  had  then  reknit 

The  ties  of  friendship  rudely  sundered, 
And  healed  the  feud  of  little  wit, 

In  which  each  thinks  the  other  blundered. 


A  DOLLAR  IN  HIS  POUCH. 

'Tis  pleasant,  when  our  friends  are  rich, 

To  meet  them  day  by  day, 
Or  good  or  ill,  no  matter  which, 

Provided  they  can  pay ; 
But  is  there  one — you  answer  not — 

Who  would  or  could  avouch 
Esteem  for  one  who  hadn't  got 

A  dollar  in  his  pouch  ? 

'Tis  pleasant  with  our  friends  to  dine, 

To  see  them  well  arrayed, 
To  bumper  them  in  costly  wine 

For  which  themselves  have  paid ; 

c 


50  The  Poetical  Works  of 


To  smoke  with  them,  to  drive  about, 

Share  cup,  caress,  and  couch — 
But  could  we  know  a  man  without 
A  dollar  in  his  pouch  ? 

The  bride  will  love  the  pleading  swain 

Who  holds  at  his  command 
A  handsome  house,  a  goodly  train 

Of  equipage  and  land ; 
But  should  his  fortune  cease  to  smile, 

Even  love  away  will  slouch — 
Why  can't  the  creature  show  a  pile 

Of  dollars  in  his  pouch  ? 

On  sea,  on  shore,  they  seem  to  say 

He  is  rich,  and  can't  be  dull ; 
The  gold  within  his  porte-monnaie, 

They  think,  can  fill  his  skull. 
Let  mammon  reign,  let  genius  rot, 

Let  wit,  love,  valor  crouch — 
Poor  devil,  if  he  has  no£  got 

A  dollar  in  his  pouch. 

If  Christ  again  should  visit  earth, 

A  man  of  toil  and  care, 
Howe'er  divine,  whate'er  his  worth, 

How,  think  you,  would  he  fare  ? 
Hence  with; this  vagi-ant !  thrust  him  out! 

Some  swindler,  I  dare  vouch — 
Think  you  God's  Son  would  come  without 

A  dollar  in  his  pouch  ? 


AN  ACEOSTIC  BIETHDAY  OFFERING. 

Here  on  her  happy  day  of  birth, 

Encircled  by  the  loves  and  laughter, 
No  other  thoughts  but  peace  and  mirth 

Resounding  from  the  gilded  rafter, 
It  is  no  easy  task  to  trace 

Each  trait  of  figure,  voice,  and  gesture— 
The  Eastern  beauty  of  the  face, 
The  large  dark  eyes,  the  regal  grace, 

And  all  the  rich,  good  taste  of  vesture. 


Charles  Graham  Ilalpine.  51 


A  woman  with  all  graces  crowned, 

Grand  in  her.  style,  yet  keenly  tender, 

Needing  a  care  we  rarely  render 
Even  where  our  love  is  most  profound — 
She  pines  for  Italy's  classic  ground. 

Beneath  her  dark  Circassian  lashes 

Each  impulse  in  her  eyes  is  shown ; 
No  feeling  moves  her  but  outflashes, 

Needing  no  words  or  spoken  tone, 
Even  as  we  gaze,  to  make  it  known  ; 
The  flashing  glance  and  changing  cheek, 
These  show  her  varying  thoughts,  and  eloquently  speak ! 


JAMES  GOKDON  BENNETT,  JR." 

Och,  Jim  avic !  you've  done  the  thrick, 

Our  chord  of  manhood  sthriking ; 
An'  now  you  stand  before  the  land 

Our  young  and  laureled  Viking. 
An'  it  isn't  bekase  you  won  the  race, 

An'  bate  all  them  others  hollow, 
But,  staunch  and  thrue  to  your  hardy  crew, 

You  didn't  say  "go, "but  "follow!" 
No  men  would  you  ask  to  face  a  task 

That  you  dodged  from  your  wealthy  station, 
An'  this  was  the  part  that  has  touched  the  heart 
Of  this  great  Yankee  nation. 


THE  KNIGHT'S  ADDRESS.10 

ON  CBOWNING  THE  LADY  Of  HIS  CHOICE  AS  QTTEEN  OF  LOVE  ANT)  BEAUTY,  AT 
THE  GBAND  TOUENAMENT  IN  ST.  CHAELE8  COUNTY,  MAEYLAND. 

The  old  chivalric  days  are  gone 
When  beauty  was  by  prowess  won ; 
But  still — though  lost  the  feudal  cause, 
Its  knightly  faith  and  courteous  laws — 
We  here  yet  strive  to  keep  aglow 

The  old  chivalric  tone  of  feeling, 
Thus  crowning  beauty's  radiant  brow, 

At  beauty's  feet  thus  humbly  kneeling. 

Oh,  lady !  in  the  good  old  time 

Your  fame  had  lived  in  minstrel  rhyme  ; 


52  The  Poetical  Works  of 


And  gallant  knights,  in  gilded  steel 
From  tossing  plume  to  weaponed  heel, 
With  lance  in  rest  and  whirling  <=\vord, 

To  win  your  smile  had  dared  all  chances — 
Kepaid  even  by  your  slightest  word, 

Or  by  one  flash  of  your  bright  glances. 

But,  ah !  the  feudal  cause  is  lost, 
And  palms  must  now  with  gold  be  crossed ; 
And  trade,  and  toil,  and  Yankee  greed 
To  knightly  faith  and  love  succeed ; 
But  beauty  still  retains  her  power, 

And  knightly  faith  yet  warmly  lingers 
Where  History — in  this  darkest  hour — 

Writes  the  "  Lost  Cause"  with  nervous  fingers. 

I  crown  thee,  lady,  as  my  queen, 
The  loveliest  earth  has  ever  seen  ; 
My  sole  regret  that  on  your  brow 
The  chaplet  which  I  offer  now 
Is  not  the  crown  of  royal  light, 

Which  beauty  such  as  yours  should  wear, 
And  that,  for  your  dear  sake,  your  knight 

Has  had  no  olden  risks  to  dare. 


HONOR  THE  BRAVE. 

Honor  the  brave  who  battle  still 

For  Irish  right  in  English  lands ;    • 
No  rule  except  their  quenchless  will, 

No  power  save  in  their  naked  hands  ; 
Who  waged  by  day  and  waged  by.  night, 

In  groups  of  three  or  bands  of  ten, 
Our  savage,  undespairing  fight 

Against  two  hundred  thousand  men. 

No  pomp  of  war  their  eyes  to  blind, 
No  blair  of  music  as  they  go, 

With  just  such  weapons  as  they  find, 
In  desperate  onset  on  the  foe. 

They  seize  the  pike,  the  torch,  the  scythe- 
Unequal  contest — but  what  then? 

With  steadfast  eyes  and  spirits  blithe 
Thev  face  two  hundred  thousand  men. 


Charles  Graham  Halpine.  53 


The  jails  are  yawning  through  the  land, 

The  scaffold's  fatal  click  is  heard, 
But  still  moves  on  the  scanty  band, 

By  jail  and  scaffold  undeterred. 
A  moment's  pause  to  wail  the  last 

Who  fell  in  freedom's  fight,  and  then, 
With  teeth  firm  set,  and  breathing  fast, 

They  face  two  hundred  thousand  men. 

Obscure,  unmarked,  with  none  to  praise 

Their  fealty  to  a  trampled  land ; 
Yet  never  knights  in  Arthur's  days 

For  desperate  cause  made  firmer  stand. 
They  wage  no  public  war,  'tis  true ; 

They  strike  and  fly,  and  strike — what  then  ? 
'Tis  only  thus  these  faithful  few 

Can  front  two  hundred  thousand  men. 

You  call  them  ignorant,  rash,  and  wild ; 

But  who  can  tell  how  patriots  feel 
With  centuries  of  torment  piled 

Above  the  land  to  which  they  kneel  ? 
And  who  has  made  them  what  we  find — 

Like  tigers  lurking  in  their  den, 
And  breaking  forth  with  fury  blind 

To  beard  two  hundred  thousand  men  ? 

Who  made  their  lives  so  hard  to  bear 

They  care  not  how  their  lives  are  lost  ? 
Their  land  a  symbol  of  despair — 

A  wreck  on  ruin's  ocean  tossed. 
We,  happier  here,  may  carp  and  sneer, 

And  judge  them  harshly — but  what  then  ? 
No  gloves  for  those  who  have  as  foes 

To  face  two  hundred  thousand  men. 

Honor  the  brave !     Let  England  rave 

Against  them  as  a  savage  band  : 
We  know  their  foes,  we  know  their  woes, 

And  hail  them  as  a  hero  band. 
With  iron  will  they  battle  still, 

In  groups  of  three  or  files  of  ten, 
Nor  care  we  by  what  savage  skill 

They  fight  two  hundred  thousand  men. 


54  The  Poetical  Works  of 


TO  FORSYTHE  FROM  O'REILLY. 

SUGGESTED  BY  THE  RECENT  DEPLORABLE  FREQUENCY  OF  MATRIMONIAL 
CASUALTIES  TO  YOUNG  OFFICERS  OF  OUR  ACQUAINTANCE. 

They  fall,  my  friend !  the  young,  the  proud, 

The  gay,  the  festive  cusses  fall — 
An  orange  wreath  instead  of  shroud, 

A  ring  in  lieu  of  Minie  ball ; 
The  men  who  faced  a  battle's  roar 

Now  yield  .to  ruffled  chemisettes, 
And  lion  hearts  bow  down  before 

Some  twilled,  frilled  pair  of  pantalettes. 

And  we,  who  with  them  marched  and  slept, 

Sharing  advance,  retreat,  attack — 
When  revel  on  "  salt  horse"  we  kept, 

Coifee,  hard  bread,  and  apple-jack — 
Shall  we  not  heave  one  pitying  breath 

For  these  our  comrades  as  they  go, 
Not  happy  to  a  sudden  death, 

But  doomed  to  lingering  lives  of  woe  ? 

"  'Twas  their  own  fault,"  the  cynic  cries  ; 

"For  if  a  moth  will  seek  the  flame, 
And  scorch  his  wing  until  he  dies, 

Is  it  moth,  or  lamp,  or  both  we  blame  ?" 
Ah !  true,  my  friend ;  but  think  how  long 

These  hapless  moths  through  War's  dark  night 
(When  rains  were  chill,  and  winds  were  strong) 

Had  pushed  their  cold  and  lonely  flight. 

So  when,  at  last,  they  saw  the  gleam, 

And  felt  the  warmth  of  woman's  eyes, 
Who  blames  them  if  they  dreamed  the  dream 

Which  every  moth  in  dreaming  dies  ? 
They  were  the  youngest,  tenderest  kids, 

And  saw  no  snake  beneath  the  flowers, 
Nor  knew  that  under  Beauty's  lids 

Dwelt  bolts  of  more  than  Whit  worth  powers. 

And  now,  my  friend,  with  moaning  sore, 

They  yield  the  latch-key,  and  resign 
The  sacred  corkscrew  which  of  yore 

In  every  pocket  used  to  shine ; 


Charles  Graham  Halpine.  55 


And  henceforth,  it  is  known  to  each 
Of  this  once  gay  and  festive  band, 

It  matters  not  what  rank  they  reach, 
Their  wives  are  in  supreme  command. 

For  them  the  idle  badge  of  power, 

The  strap  with  bar,  or  leaf,  or  bird — 
But  on  the  wives  to  whom  they  cower 

Far  higher  brevets  are  conferred ; 
The  throated  frill,  the  scented  glove, 

The  crimson  lip,  the  throbbing  breast — 
These  high  commissions,  signed  by  love, 

What  slave  of  Hymen  dares  contest  ? 

Ah !  no ;  unhappy,  it  was  theirs 

To  ride  unhurt  through  fields  of  strife ; 
But  now — like  rabbits  caught  in  snares — 

Each  comrade  yields  him  to  a  wife. 
And  henceforth  epaulette  or  sash, 

Or  chapeau-bras,  or  baldric  bright, 
Are  nothing  more  than  empty  trash—* 

Their  rank  and  file  (not  wives)  to  fight. 

For  higher  than  all  flags  that  float, 

Or  all  the  stars  on  straps  conferred, 
Is  woman's  deathless  petticoat, 

And  woman's  last  appealing  word ! 
In  vain  they  strive— our  comrades  old— 

Against  the  sway  when  first  'tis  felt, 
'Tis  beauty's  dower  as  slaves  to  hold 

The  heart  that  once  her  power  could  melt. 

And  so  they  fall — the  young,  the  proud, 

The  gay  and  festive  cusses  fall — 
An  orange  wreath  instead  of  shroud, 

A  ring  in  lieu  of  Minie  ball ; 
The  men  who  faced  a  battle's  roar 

Now  yield  to  broidered  chemisettes, 
And  lion  hearts  bow  down  before 

Some  twilled,  frilled  pair  of  pantalettes. 


ONLY  SOME  RELICS. 

A  ring  she  wore— a  jewel  that  pressed 
The  maiden  beauty  of  her  breast. 

A  glove  our  happy  hands  once  drew 
From  her  small  fingers  veined  with  blue. 


56  The  Poetical  Works  of 


A  ribbon  that  around  her  throat 
Loved  in  the  dallying  winds  to  float. 

A  golden  clasp,  that  once  had  known 
The  silken  pressure  of  her  zone. 

A  little  slipper  with  blue  rosette, 
In  which  her  fairy  foot  was  set. 

And  one  brown  tress,  through  happy  years 
Shading  the  shell-films  of  her  ears — 

These,  and  an  ivorytype's  dull  stain, 
Are  all  of  our  dear  one  that  now  remain  ; 

All  the  dear  relics  that  are  left 

Of  her  by  whose  loss  our  hearts  are  cleft ; 

Leaving  the  world  a  dim,  dead  space 
Of  cares  and  duties  with  little  grace — 

A  dull,  dead  level  of  weary  years, 
In  which  no  blossoming  joy  appears ; 

No  girl  with  teeth  like  the  rows  of  corn 
When  you  strip  the  ear  as  the  summer  is  born ; 

And  tresses  of  changing  gold  and  brown, 
Over  shoulders  of  ivory  shaken  down ; 

And  lips  in  whose  arched  and  crimson  bow 
All  the  flushing  balms  of  the  tropics  glow ; 

And  over  whose  dimpled  cheeks,  like  light 

And  shade  over  meadows,  the  thoughts  take  flight ; 

Winged  by  her  innocent,  dancing  eyes, 
With  coyness  and  coquetry,  smiles  and  sighs. 

Her  voice  was  the  hum  of  a  summer  wind 

When  it  breathes  through  a  lattice  with  roses  twined ; 

Her  soul  was  as  pure,  as  unsullied  and  white, 
As  the  chanting  seraphs  in  robes  of  light ; 

And  the  kindness  that  dwelt  in  her  heart,  I  deem, 
Of  the  heaven  she  now  dwells  in  was  some  stray  gleam. 

Oh,  loved  and  lost !  our  soul's  adored ! 
Our  dove  with  silver  wings — our  bird ! 

Beauty  embodied,  and  joy,  and  peace, 

Whose  breath  had  a  charm  bidding  sorrow  cease. 


Charles  Graham  Halpine.  57 


Best  gift  that  heaven  to  bless  us  gave, 
We  cast  this  chaplet  on  thy  grave. 


PHILADELPHIA.11 

VOICE  OP  THE  BOYS  IN  BLUE. 

Be  merciful  to  the  South — 
Not  with  the  empty  word  in  your  mouth, 
But  merciful  be — let  your  actions  tell — 
To  the  men  who  were  beaten,  but  fought  so  well : 
Be  merciful  to  the  South ! 

Be  generous  to  the  South, 
Gentle  in  deed,  and  in  word  of  mouth  ; 

For  no  craven  brand  on  the  forehead  shines 
Of  the  men  who  met  us  in  volleying  lines, 

And  fought  for  the  flag  of  the  South. 

Be  tender  and  just  to  the  South, 
For  famine,  and  slaughter,  and  hunger,  and  drouth 
They  have  suffered,  who  made  such  a  gallant  fight 
For  a  cause  that  was  wrong — but  they  thought  right- 
Be  just  to  the  beaten  South ! 

Be  just,  and  be  something  more, 
Now  that  the  hot  days  of  battle  are  o'er  ; 
For  brothers  we  were  in  the  glorious  past, 
And  brothers  again  we  must  be  at  last — 

Be  merciful  to  the  Sduth ! 

We  are  all  here  once  more, 
The  terrible  days  of  our  conflict  o'er ; 
And  again  the  old  flag  floats  elate 
O'er  the  capital  dome  of  each  sister  state 

In  the  East,  North,  West,  and  South ! 

Let  us  join  hands  once  more,  • 

Renewing  the  vows  that  our  fathers  swore ; 
Forgetting  all  strife  save  the  lesson  it  taught, 
And  meeting  as  reconciled  brothers  ought — 

A  reconciled  North  and  South. 

Errors  on  both  sides  were, 

But  for  these — they  are  past,  and  we  have  no  care ; 
Let  a  sponge  glide  over  the  hideous  years 
Of  terror  and  bloodshed,  havoc  and  tears, 

Dividing  the  North  and  South. 

C  2 


58  The  Poetical  Works  of 


One  destiny  holds  us  yet,  « 

We  have  common  hopes  and  a  common  debt ; 
For  England  was  false  to  us  both  alike, 
And  against  her  power  with  strong  arms  should  strike 

The  reconciled  North  and  South. 

Oh,  'tis  a  glorious  hour, 
That  joins  us  again  in  imperial  power ; 

And  long  o'er  the  land  of  the  free  and  the  brave 
May  the  Pine  and  Palmetto  united  wave — 
Fit  emblems  of  North  and  South. 

Again,  like  two  parted  friends, 
With  our 'quarrel  fought  out,  the  hatred  ends; 
And  none  more  welcome  this  happy  day 
Than  the  Boys  in  Blue  and  the  Boys  in  Gray, 

Who  fought  for  the  North  and  the  South. 


THE  HOUSEHOLD  TOMB. 

The  shafts  of  disappointment  fall 

Where  most  we  build  our  pride, 
And  now  the  dearest  loved  of  all 

Their  little  ones  had  died ; 
The  tears  they  shed  in  silence  fell 

Like  rain-drops  through  the  gloom, 
And  unto  him  they  loved  so  well 

They  reared  this  household  tomb. 

The  little  bird  whose  tender  wing 

Grew  weak  in  winter  tide, 
Who  seemed  to  strengthen  in  the  spring, 

And  soared  in  summer's  pride — 
Grew  fainter  as  the  autumn  fell 

On  summer's  withering  bloom,     • 
And  unto  him  they  loved  so  well 

They  built  this  household  tomb. 

He  had  a  trick  in  sunny  hours 

To  seek  the  garden  walks, 
And  pluck  from  out  the  radiant  flowers 

The  withered  buds  and  stalks ; 
He  bore  them  in  as  if  to  tell 

That  canker-worms  consume, 
And  soon  to  him,  beloved  so  well, 

They  reared  this  household  tomb. 


Charles  Graham  If  alpine.  59 

The  church  hath  massive  iron  gates, 

Six  days  'tis  cold  and  dim, 
Till  Sabbath  fills  the  silken  seats, 

And  the  organ  swells  the  hymn  ; 
Shall  there  a  blazoned  pillar  tell 

A  child's  so  common  doom  ? 
Ah !  no ;  for  him,  beloved  so  well, 

They  built  a  household  tomb. 

On  the  mantle-piece  all  old  and  worn, 

Where  his  childish  toys  are  laid, 
Where  the  withered  buds  he  plucked  were  borne, 

In  the  room  where  oft  he  played — 
A  kneeling  statue  sheds  a  spell 

Of  prayer  around  the  room, 
And  the  little  boy  they  loved  so  well 

Has  thus  a  household  tomb. 

Oh,  friend,  I've  seen  the  tear-drops  shine, 

And 'watched  your  quivering  lip, 
I've  felt  your  arm  clutch  closer  mine 

When  a  bright  boy  chanced  to  trip 
Across  our  path,  and  though  there  fell 

No  tear,  nor  word  of  gloom, 
I  knew  your  spirit  bowed  before 

That  little  household  tomb. 

But,  comfort !     There's  a  higher  sphere 

Where  the  earth-lost  reunite ; 
The  spirit  of  your  boy  seems  near, 

To  prompt  each  word  I  write ; 
He  says  he  shares  the  loved  ones'  mirth 

When  they  gather  in  the  room, 
And  smiles  down  on  the  silent  hearth, 

Even  from  the  household  tomb. 


IRELAND  AND  THE  SOUTH. 

THE  BOYS  IN  GBEEN  TO  THE  BOYS  IN  GBAY. 

Air:  "The  Wearing  of  the  Green" 

Ring  out  from  every  steeple, 
Call  the  clans  from  every  fold, 

We're  a  democratic  people, 

And  our  faith  we  mean  to  hold ; 


60  The  Poetical  Works  of 


We're  for  mercy  to  the  beaten  foe, 

For  brothers  we  have  been, 
And  what  oppression  is  we  know, 

All  we  who  wear  the  Green — 
Ay,  what  oppression  is  we  know, 

All  we  who  wear  the  Green — 
In  our  very  bones  what  it  is  we  know, 

We  boys  who  wear  the  Green. 

We  have  felt  it  in  our  sire-land, 

With  its  whip  our  backs  are  scored ; 
Of  the  South  we'll  make  no  Ireland 

Scourged  with  famine  and  the  sword ; 
'Tis  true  they  tried  the  rebel  game, 

But  punished  they  have  been, 
And  I  rather  think  we've  done  the  same, 

All  we  who  wear  the  Green — 
We  ourselves  have  done  the  very  same, 

All  we  who  wear  the  Green, 
And  we  hope  again  to  do  the  same, 

We  boys  who  wear  the  Green. 

Oh,  manhood's  proudest  duty 

1    Is  to  fight  for  manhood's  faith  ; 

And  true  courage  has  a  beauty 

That  not  even  crime  can  scathe ; 
Into  chaos  they  plunged  headward,  boys ; 

Their  guilt  we  do  not  screen  ; 
But  our  Emmet  and  Lord  Edward,  boys, 

Did  likewise  for  the  Green — 
Ay !  Sheares,  and  Orr,  and  Edward,  boys, 

Were  rebels  for  the  Green ; 
Wolfe  Tone,  and  Bond,  and  Edward,  boys, 

Did  likewise  for  the  Green ! 

And  the  day  is  not  far  distant 

When  our  equal  boast  shall  be 
That  our  country's  crown  is  glistened 

With  Grant,  Farragut,  and  Lee ; 
By  Stonewall  Jackson's  front  of  flame, 

And  Sherman  swift  and  keen, 
And  Meagher,  who  led  on  to  fame 

Us  boys  who  wear  the  Green — 
Tom  Meagher,  whose  brigade  of  fame 

All  wore  the  plumes  of  Green ; 
And  Sheridan,  whose  deathless  name 

Proclaims  he  wears  the  Green ! 


Charles  Graham  If  alpine.  61 


So/'  Mercy"  be  the  countersign, 

And  "  Hoffman"  the  parole — 
Let  the  bugles  ring  along  our  line, 

And  the  drums  for  battle  roll. 
And  the  cry  shall  swell  from  every  mouth, 

And  on  our  flags  be  seen, 
We're  for  mercy  for  the  rebel  South, 

"We  rebels  of  the  Green"— 
We've  a  fellow  feeling  for  the  South, 

We  rebels  of  the  Green — 
The  boys  who  wore  the  Gray  down  South, 

We  boys  who  wore  the  Green. 


A  LITTLE  RHYME  OF  LITTLE  THINGS, 

FOE  VEKY  LITTLE  PEOPLE. 

A  curious  thing  it  were  to  know, 

And  knowledge  worth  the  winning, 
How  very  big  a  fact  may  grow 

From  quite  a  small  beginning ; 
Tom  treads  on  Freddy's  tender  toe, 
And  gives  a  curse,  and  then  a  blow 

That  sets  poor  Tommy  spinning ; 
Next  knives  are  drawn,  and  blood  must  flow, 
And  Freddy  to  the  gallows  go 

For  homicidal  sinning ; 
And  yet  a  corn  upon  the  toe — 

A  corn  was  the  beginning. 

A  ripened  apple  fell  one  day 

Where  a  wise  man  was  walking — 
An  accident,  as  some  would  say, 

Not  worth  a  moment's  talking ; 
But — in  a  philosophic  way — 
That  apple  called  a  mind  in  play 

That  was  not  easy  balking ; 
The  secret  of  mechanics  lay 
Enshrined  therein — 'twas  heaven's  own  ray 

To  us  in  darkness  walking : 
Yet  trifles  such  as  these,  we  say, 

Scarce  merit  serious  talking. 

An  idle  man  sat  down  one  night 

Before  a  boiling  kettle,  •    • 

And  plugged  the  spout  exceeding  tight 
With  some  soft  kind  of  metal ; 


The  Poetical  Works  of 


Off  went  the  lid !  a  common  sight, 
But  unto  him  'twas  different  quite, 

For  he  resolved  to  settle 
What  force  this  boiling  water  might 
Possess  ?  and  so  there  came  to  light 

The  steed  of  tireless  mettle ; 
The  locomotive  lay  that  night 

Within  a  tap-room  kettle. 

A  Yankee  youth — a  sturdy  chap — 

Was  partial  to  kite  flying, 
And  just  to  see  what  chance  would  hap, 

A  fork  he  took,  and  tying 
The  prongs  above  the  peak,  the  trap 
Caught,  caged,  and  tamed  the  thunder-clap ! 

A  fact  now  patent,  lying 
In  the  electric  wires  which  lap 
Our  country,  and  will  soon  enwrap 

All  climes  and  oceans  lying 
Upon  the  broad  earth's  mighty  map — 

So  much  for  his  kite  flying! 

So  don't  despise  the  little  things 

Which  happen  daily  round  us, 
For  some  of  them  may  chance  take  wings 

To  startle  and  astound  us. 
Trace  back  the  greatest  deed — it  springs 
From  trifles  which  no  poet  sings — 

Some  trifling  change,  which  found  us 
Prepared  to  grasp  and  mount  its  wings  ; 
Then  with  our  fame  the  wide  earth  rings, 

And  Fate's  high  hand  hath  crowned  us, 
Because  we  watched  those  little  things 

Which  she  made  happen  round  us. 


THE  BETTEK  CHOICE. 

Too  little  do  we  gaze  on  Nature's  face — 
Too  much  have  dwelt  in  colleges  and  towns, 

Where  man  pursues  the  miserable  race 

Of  wealth  and  mere  book-learning.     The  muse  frowns 
On  him  whose  footsteps  o'er  the  breezy  downs 

Seldom  have  pressed ;  our  need  is  solitude, 
For  thff  harsh  dissonance  of  the  city  drowns 

Those  dreams  of  virtue1,  loveliness,  and  good, 

Which  in  the  breast  of  youth,  however  stifled,  brood. 


Charles  Graham,  Halpine.  63 


Let  us  arise,  and  shake  away  the  dust 

Of  brick  and  pavement  from  our  flying  feet , 
All  former  visions  from  remembrance  thrust, 

And  even  forget  that  once  we  trod  the  street. 

Up  in  the  mountains  haply  we  may  meet 
Those  glorious  fancies  that  still  shun  the  throng ; 

The  rill's  wild  music,  tremulous  and  sweet, 
Will  lend  a  softer  cadence  to  our  song, 
The  cataract's  curbless  strength  may  teach  us  to  be  strong. 

And  flowers,  and  perfumes,  and  untainted  air, 
And  forest  green  with  dark  cathedral  glooms, 

And  the  fleet  birds,  whose  mission  is  to  bear 
Nature's  true  music  on  their  outspread  plumes, 
And  mossy  banks,  and  overhanging  blooms 

Of  trailing  honeysuckle — these  shall  teach 

Our  tongues  to  breathe  the  passion  that  consumes 

The  inmost  spirit ;  and  we  shall  learn  a  speech 

Wide-general  enough  all  human  hearts  to  reach. 

All  forms  of  art  are  transient,  and  they  die 

Even  with  the  folly  which  conferred  their  birth. 
Fashion  deceives,  but  Nature  can  not  lie 

While  the  wide  ocean  cradles  the  green  earth. 

False  are  the  echoes  of  conventional  mirth, 
Falser  the  semblance  of  conventional  woe, 

Mere  puppet  feelings  cherished  in  the  dearth 
Of  genuine  passion  ;  for  a  while  they  glow 
Like  paint  on  death's  shrunk  cheek — there  is  no  life  below. 

The  couch  of  velvet  and  the  damask  fold 

May  give  luxurious  languor  some  brief  ease, 
And  mirror'd  walls  and  cornices  of  gold 

Afford  good  shelter,  and  a  while  may  please ; 

But  look  again,  and  tell  me  where  are  these  ? 
A  heap  of  tatters  and  a  tottering  Avail ! 

Not  so  this  mossy  bank,  these  sheltering  trees ; 
Nor  fades  fhe  sun,  nor  does  the  green  hill  fall, 
Nor  fails  the  bright  still  pool  to  mirror  back  the  whole. 

Forms,  books,  and  customs  are  the  chains  that  bind 

Our  hearts  to  wretchedness.     Whoe'er  would  be 
Strong  in  himself,  these  fetters  cast  behind 

'And  seek  the  desert — limbs  and  reason  free ! 

There  let  him  ponder  of  his  destiny, 
Survey  the  mountain  shrine,  the  starlit  dome, 

Hear  Nature's  prompting  voice  :  "  All  this  for  thee 
Was  made  and  is  sustained ;  it  is  thy  home ; 
Be  true  to  your  own  life,  and  here  earth's  monarch  roam ! " 


64  The  Poetical  Works  of 


Oh,  false  conceit !  self-baffling  avarice ! 

That  strives  to  grasp  the  mental  riches  earned 
By  former  toilers !     Be  assured  of  this — 

No  ray  of  thought  that  erst  in  Goethe  burned, 

Through  pedant-channel  can  to  you  be  turned. 
Each  hand  must  pluck  its  individual  fruit. 

Books  are  the  grave  where  knowledge  is  inurned  ; 
No  second  blossom  from  their  clay  can  shoot ; 
Yourself  must  sow  the  seed — let  them  manure  the  root. 

And  we  have  idled  our  best  years  away 

In  gathering  dead  leaves.     There  yet  is  time 
To  plant  a  better  harvest,  such  as  may 

In  part  compensate  for  wasted  prime. 

And  though  no  forest,  leafy  and  sublime, 
Our  wintering  sun  can  hope  to  shake  abroad, 

Still  may  we  graft  some  creepers  that  will  climb 
Round  our  old  age,  enlivening  the  green  sod, 
And  breathing  grateful  praise  to  the  benignant  God, 

Oh,  mother  earth !  to  us  estranged  too  long 
Have  been  thy  beauties — not  by  our  own  will, 

For  with  a  passion  blind  as  it  was  strong 
Have  we  adored  thy  purity,  and  still 
Would,  ere  the  years  our  destiny  fulfill, 

Drink  thy  inspiring  eloquence ;  nor  thou 
This  tardy  homage  to  thy  throne  repel — 

Clouds  may  not  always  linger  on  heaven's  brow, 

And  let  the  future  speak  the  fervor  of  our  vow. 


DUET  FOR  THE  BREAKFAST-TABLE. 

KOMANTIC  HUSBAND. 

Thou  art  my  love !  I  have  none  other 
But  only  thee — but  only  thee. 

SENSIBLE  WIFE. 

Now,  Charles,  do  stop  this  silly  bother, 
And  drink  your  tea — your  cooling  tea. 

ROMANTIC  HUSBAND. 

Your  eyes  are  diamonds,  gems  refined, 
Your  teeth  are  pearl,  your  hair  is  gold — 

SENSIBLE  WIFE. 

Oh  nonsense  now !     I  know  you'll  find 
Your  cutlets  cold — exceeding  cold. 


Charles  Graham  Halpine.  65 


ROMANTIC  HUSBAND. 

Where'er  thou  art,  my  passions  burn ; 
I  envy  not  the  monarch's  crown — 

SENSIBLE  WIFE. 

Put  some  hot  water  in  the  urn, 

And  toast  this  bread,  and  toast  it  brown. 

ROMANTIC  HUSBAND. 

Had  I  Golconda's  wealth,  I  say, 

'Twere  thind  at  will — 'twere  thine  at  will- 

SENSIBLE  WIFE. 

Then  let  me  have  a  check  to  pay 

The  dry-goods  bill— that  tedious  bill ! 

ROMANTIC  HUSBAND. 

Oh,  heed  it  not,  my  trembling  flower  ; 
If  want  should  press  us,  let  it  come — 

SENSIBLE  WIFE. 

And,  apropos,  the  bill  for  flour 
Is  quite  a  sum.— an  unpaid  sum. 

ROMANTIC  HUSBAND. 

So  rich  in  love,  so  rich  in  joy, 

No  change  our  cup  of  bliss  can  spill — 

SENSIBLE  WIFE. 

Now  do  be  quiet !     You  destroy 

My  cambric  frill — my  well-starched  frill. 

ROMANTIC  HUSBAND. 

Ha !  senseless,  soulless,  loveless  girl, 
To  sympathy  and  passion  dead ! 

SENSIBLE  WIFE. 

A  moment  since  I  was  your  "pearl," 
Your  "  only  love" — at  least  you  said. 

ROMANTIC  HUSBAND. 

I  spoke  it  in  the  bitter  jest 

Of  one  his  own  deep  sadness  scorning — 

SENSIBLE  WIFE. 

Well,  candor  is  at  all  times  best : 
I  wish  you,  sir,  a  fair  good  morning ! 


66  The  Poetical  Works  of 


THE  NYMPH  OF  LURLEIBERGH. 

In  Lurleibergh's  deep  shadowed  vale, 

Where  all  the  Rhine's  blue  waters  meet, 
A  maiden  sat,  as  fair  and  pale 

As  were  the  lilies  at  her  feet ; 
Her  hair  in  wild  profusion  flowing 

From  roses  richly  wreathed  above 
To  hide  the  gentle  bosom,  glowing 

With  mingled  thoughts  of  fear  and  love. 
Oh,  Nymph  of  Lurleibergh !  thy  lute, 
Why  stands  it  thus  untouched  and  mute  ? 
What  pensive  shadows  cloud  thine  eye, 
And  cheat  the  moments  as  they  fly  ? 
Thou  art  too  young,  too  fair  for  pain 
To  dim  the  smile  or  wring  the  brain  ; 
Too  pure  thou  seem'st  for  thought  of  ill, 
Yet  sad  thou  art,  and  pensive  still. 

Yea,  thou  art  sad,  although  no  tear 

Bedews  thy  silken-fringed  lid, 
And  all  the  more  will  sorrow  sear 

When  thus  in  mute  endurance  hid. 
Thine  eyes  are  fixed  upon  the  river, 

As  past  thy  feet  its  waters  roll, 
And,  swift  as  are  its  ripples,  quiver 

The  tides  of  feeling  in  thy  soul. 
Oh,  Nymph  of  Lurleibergh  !  the  crown 
Of  flowers  you  wear  will  wither  soon, 
The  lute's  harmonious  chords  will  slack, 
And  youth,  once  flown,  comes  never  back  ; 
The  gushing  waters,  pure  and  sweet, 
That  pour  their  tribute  to  thy  feet, 
Soon  pass  the  bowers  of  trellised  vine, 
And  perish  in  the  stormful  brine. 

We  should  not  waste  in  tears  the  hours 

Of  youth,  that  all  too  fleetly  flow ; 
In  spring  the  fields  are  decked  with  flowers, 

And  wintry  age  is  capped  with  snow ; 
And  thou  art  in  the  spring  of  being, 

And  thou  shouldst  be  as  light  and  gay 
As  is  the  lark  when  upward  fleeing 

To  bathe  his  pinions  in  the  ray 
That  calls  the  bluebell  from  the  meadow, 
And  steeps  tne  hill  in  sultry  shadow ; 


Charles  Graham  Halpine.  67 


That  bathes  the  morning  lake  in  fire, 
And  tips  with  gold  the  village  spire. 
I  too  have  felt  the  hopeless  void 
Of  pleasures  lost  when  most  enjoyed, 
And  learned,  alas !  that  tears  are  vain 
To  wash  such  memories  from  the  brain. 


THE  PAETING  KISS. 

JULIET. 

One  kiss  before  you  go,  love, 

One  kiss  before  we  part, 
Indeed  you  do  not  know,  love, 

The  sadness  of  my  heart. 
The  dawn  that  wakes  the  birds,  love, 

To  joy,  is  pain  to  me ; 
I  hear  your  farewell  words,  love, 

Nor  care  how  bright  it  be. 

Oh,  softly  down  the  stream,  love, 

Let  your  light  oars  be  driven, 
For  I  have  dreamt  a  dream,  love — 

Perchance  a  warning  given ! 
I  dreamt  my  brother  stood,  love, 

And  saw  our  parting  kiss  ; 
It  can  not  bode  us  good,  love, 

Be  sure,  forget  not  this ! 

Nor  must  thou  yet  forget,  love, 

At  nightfall  to  return, 
When  o'er  the  parapet,  love, 

You  see  my  signal  burn. 
Adieu !  we  may  not  stay,  love ; 

Cease  not  to  think  of  me ; 
And  through  the  weary  day,  love, 

I'll  pray  for  night  and  thee. 

ROMEO. 

Oh,  hush !  your  fears  are  vain,  love. 

Nor  sire  nor  brother  near ; 
Indeed  I  may  remain,  love, 

There  is  no  danger  here. 
The  prying  dawn  delays,  love, 

As  loth  to  break  our  bliss ; 
He  did  but  peep  to  win  from  thee 

The  fond,  the  parting  kiss. 


68 


The  Poetical  Works  of 


The  willows,  bending  deep,  love, 

In  prudent  awe  look  down ; 
They  will  not  raise  their  heads  to  peep 

Lest  you,  my  love,  should  frown. 
The  birds  are  all  asleep,  love — 

Oh,  chide  not  my  delay ; 
For  where  thou  art  not  is  my  night. 

Where'er  thou  art,  my  day. 

Alas !  the  spell  is  riven,  love, 

I  hear  the  bells  afar ; 
Dost  thou  not  see  in  heaven,  love, 

Yon  dimly-fading  star  ? 
When  in  the  dewy  eve,  love, 

It  rises  o'er  the  hill, 
You'll  see  my  shallop  on  the  stream, 

And  hear  my  bugle  shrill. 

Adieu !  it  is  the  dawn,  love, 

I  must — I  must  away ; 
The  fading  star  hath  gone,  love, 

The  birds  awake  the  day. 
To  part  at  all  is  pain,  love, 

To  thee  and  me ;  I  wish — 
But,  till  we  meet  again,  love, 

Oh,  keep  my  parting  kiss. 


ORIGINAL  SIN. 

RECOLLECTIONS  OF  A  SERMON  ON  T1II8  TEXT  BY  THE  EEV.  DR.  BELLOWS,  SENT 
TO  A  LADY  EQUALLY  REMARKABLE  FOR  HER  BEAUTY,  WIT,  BENEVOLENCE,  AND 
THE  INTEREST  SHE  TOOK  IN  FAST  HORSES  AND  DEMOCRATIC  POLITICS. 

My  dear  Mrs.  Blank,  for  the  excellent  sermon 

You  led  me  to  hear,  I  your  debtor  remain ; 
And  revolving  the  subject  has  made  me  determine 

To  sift  the  discourse'into  language  more  plain. 
Your  pastor  in  me  has  now  found  a  disciple 

Who  means  to  go  into  religion  and  win  ; 
But,  in  case  he  should  fail,  in  the  words  of  the  Bible, 

Impute  his  mishap  to  "  original  sin !" 

That  "  man  is  not  perfect"  the  excellent  Bellows 

Undoubtedly  proves,  and  I  boldly  maintain  ; 
Whenever  you  show  me  "  a  prince  of  good  fellows," 

His  sins  will  keep  pace  with  the  size  of  his  brain. 


Charles  Graham  Halpine. 


69 


Your  men  of  small  natures  are  prim  and  decorous, 
To  prudery's  domain  their  brief  steps  they  confine, 

While  the  "  big  hearted  Indians"  who  truly  rule  o'er  us, 
Can't  bring  down  their  strides  to  the  limiting  line. 

But  woman !  dear  woman !  the  excellent  Bellows, 

In  all  his  discourse,  breathed  no  word  about  her ; 
He  was  fearful,  perhaps,  Mrs.  B.  would  grow  jealous, 

And  therefore  thought  better  that  point  to  defer. 
But  that  woman  is  perfect  in  all  things  becoming 

A  womanly  nature,  he  could  not  deny, 
And  assuredly  not,  if  this  sermon  while  humming, 

He  chanced  on  our  pew  to  direct  his  staid  eye. 

I  heard  his  discourse  with  a  kind  of  mixed  notion 

That  "the  bliss"  he  described  was  alh'ed  to  our  pew  5. * 
And  whenever  he  spoke  of  "the  need  of  devotion," 

I  felt  most  devoutly — attracted  to  you. 
That  heaven  has  rewards  "  both  in  here  and  hereafter" 

For  those  who  'tend  meeting,  I  felt  to  be  plain  ; 
For  a  pleasanter  goblet  of  dreams  than  I  quaffed  there 

Was  never  poured  out — labeled  "Fancy's  Champagne." 

Oh,  ne'er  while  I  live  be  that  sermon  forgotten — 

It  made  an  impression  no  years  can  efface ; 
Your  parson's  the  best  horse  I  know  of  to  trot  on, 

When  girdling  our  loins  for  eternity's  race. 
"  Two  thirty"  we  got  it — the  dull  nags  we  "  dish  'em," 

Ne'er  turning  a  hair,  and  ne'er  casting  a  shoe ; 
And  the  "  Bloomingdale  Road"  which  leads  up  to  Elysium, 

I  am  firmly  convinced  has  its  start  from  your  pew. 


STAMPING  OUT.12 

Ay,  stamp  away !     Can  you  stamp  it  out— 

This  quenchless  fire  of  a  nation's  freedom  ? 
Your  feet  are  broad  and  your  legs  are  stout, 

But  stouter  for  this  you'll  need  'em ! 
You  have  stamped  away  for  six  hundred  years, 

But  again  and  again  the  old  cause  rallies, 
Pikes  gleam  in  the  hands  of  our  mountaineers, 

And  with  scythes  come  the  men  from  our  valleys 

The  steel-clad  Norman,  as  he  roams, 
Is  faced  by  our  naked  gallowglasses, 

We  lost  the  plains  and  our  pleasant  homes, 
But  we  held  the  hills  and  passes. 


TO  The  Poetical  Works  of 


And  still  the  beltane  fires  at  night, 

If  not  a  man  were  left  to  feed  'em, 
By  widows'  hands  piled  high  and  bright, 

'Flashed  far  the  flame  of  freedom. 

Ay,  stamp  away !     Can  you  stamp  it  out, 

Or  how  have  your  brutal  arts  been  baffled  ? 
You  have  wielded  the  power  of  rope  and  knout, 

Fire,  dungeon,  sword,  and  scaffold. 
But  still,  as  from  each  martyr's  hand 

The  fiery  cross  fell  down  in  fighting, 
A  thousand  sprang  to  seize  the  brand, 

Our  beltane  fires  relighting. 
And  once  again  through  Irish  nights, 

O'er  every  dark  hill  redly  streaming, 
And  numerous  as  the  heavenly  lights 

Our  rebel  fires  were  gleaming. 
And  though  again  might  fail  that  flame, 

Quenched  in  the  blood  of  its  devoted, 
Fresh  chieftains  rose,  fresh  clansmen  came, 

And  again  the  old  flag  floated. 

That  fire  will  burn,  that  flag  will  float, 

By  virtue  nursed,  by  valor  tended, 
Till  with  one  fierce  clutch  upon  your  throat 

Your  Moloch  reign  is  ended. 
It  may  be  now,  or  it  may  be  then, 

That  the  hour  will  come  we  have  hoped  for  ages, 
But,  failing  and  failing,  we  try  again, 

And  again  the  conflict  rages. 
Our  hate,  though  hot,  is  a  patient  hate, 

Deadly  and  patient  to  catch  you  tripping, 
And  your  years  are  many,  your  crimes  are  great, 

And  the  sceptre  is  from  you  slipping. 
But  stamp  away  with  your  brutal  hoof, 

While  the  fires  to  scorch  you  are  upward  cleaving, 
For  with  bloody  shuttles,  the  Avarp  and  woof 

Of  your  shroud  the  Fates  are  weaving. 


THE  LISPEK  AND  BOOTH. 

"  Come  tell  me,  girls,  and  tell  me  truth, 
Why  are  you  all  so  in  love  with  Booth  ? 

1 '  Has  he  given  you  filters,  or  mixed  love-powders 
In  your  breakfast  coffee  or  luncheon  chowders  ?" 


Charles  Graham  Ilalpine.  71 


Fast  came  the  answer,  clear  and  crisp, 

From  a  young,  plump  blonde  with  a  lovely  lisp  : 

''  I'm  thure,  Mither  Mileth,  we  love  him  tho, 
Becauth  he  ith  Booth-iful,  you  know!" 

I  caught  the  lisper  and  kissed  her  there : 

"Kith  me  muth  ath  you  pleath,  but  don't  wumple  my  hair ; 

"And  fondle  me,  Mileth,  juth  ath  muth  ath  you  will, 
If  you  only  won't  wuifle  my  Bwuthells  fwill !" 

So  I  drew  her  aside,  and,  with  kiss  and  whisper, 

There  were  high  old  times  between  Miles  and  the  lisper ; 

And — let  Booth  be  "  boothiful"  or  no, 
"fwas  a  beautiful  girl  that  called  him  so. 


THE  OLD  GREEN  FLAG. 

"  The  Fenian  cause  is  dead,"  they  say ; 
"  Clean  crushed  by  Seward's  craven  sway !" 
'Tis  dead — that  is,  for  the  present  day — 
'Twill  rise  again. 

That  cause,  in  Irish  lore  appears 
Has  lived  for  full  seven  hundred  years-r- 
Oft  quenched  in  blood,  and  quenched  in  tears, 
It  rose  again. 

The  dying  sire  bequeathed  his  sword 
To  sons  who  then  their  life-blood  poured, 
And  o'er  their  sons  the  Green  Flag  soared — 
'Twill  soar  again. 

The  Irish  mother,  as  she  pressed 
The  warm,  full  nipple  of  her  breast, 
Thus  lullabied  her  babe  to  rest — 
"  'Twill  rise  again." 

Despite  rope,  dungeon,  famine,  chains, 
And  bills  of  penalties  and  pains, 
For  all  with  Irish  in  their  veins, 
It  rose  again. 

From  Silken  Thomas  trace  its  flow 
To  Hugh  O'Neil  and  Owen  Roe ; 
And  though  Lord  Edward  felt  the  blow, 
It  rose  again. 


72  The  Poetical  Works  of 


And  though  Wolfe  Tone  in  prison  died, 
And  Emmet  was  siain  on  Liffy's  side, 
Despite  all  England's  power  and  pride, 
It  rose  again. 

It  crossed  the  sea.     The  Irish  race, 
Uprooted  from  their  dwelling-place, 
Came  here  new  destinies  to  face — 
It  rose  again. 

"  Eternal  hatred  of  the  foe — 
Eternal  warfare,  blow  for  blow, 
Till  England's  power  in  the  dust  lies  low"- 
This  rose  again. 

"While  Irish  blood  through  our  veins  is  led, 
For  the  Cause  and  Flag  shall  our  blood  be  shed, 
Till  the  Green,  high  soaring  above  the  Red, 
Floats  free  again." 

Despite  of  Seward's  truckling  fears, 
And  Irish  slaves,  with  mocks  and  jeers 
For  those  who  hold  the  faith  of  years, 
'Twill  rise  again. 

By  suffering  taught  to  help  the  weak — 
For  all  the  oppressed  of  earth  we  speak — 
For  all  the  oppressed  some  hope  we  seek 
To  rise  again. 

Oh,  generous,  proud,  and  gallant  race — 
So  often  rash,  so  rarely  base — 
Sure  as  the  bright  sun  holds  her  place, 
'Twill  rise  again. 

The  old  Green  Flag,  the  good  old  Cause, 
Despite  the  check  of  cramping  laws, 
Shall  yet  obtain  the  world's  applause 
When  risen  again. 

Wherever  England's  flag  may  float, 
Or  slaves  may  wear  her  scarlet  coat, 
Leap,  Fenians !  at  the  tyrant's  throat, 
And  try  again. 

The  great  heart  of  the  land,  we  claim, 
Is  thrilled  with  sympathetic  flame, 
For  they,  as  we,  hate  England's  name — 
'Twill  rise  again. 


GTiarles  Graham  Halpine.  73 


For  perjured  faith — for  foulest  blows 
Struck  when  the  rebel  standard  rose — 
England,  even  here,  a  deep  debt  owes : 
'Twill  rise  again. 

Let  Seward  curve  his  craven  knee, 
Yet,  while  America  is  free, 
The  flag  we  bore  across  the  sea 
Shall  rise  again — 

Will  rise  despite  all  human  power — 
Will  flame  abroad  in  time's  full  hour — 
Till,  high  in  air,  o'er  field  and  tower,      • 
It  floats  again. 

But,  brethren,  till  that  hour  shall  come, 
Be  busy  with  your  hands — bufr  dumb ; 
Nor  speak  till  told  by  the  rolling  drum 
"It  floats  again." 

"  It  floats— the  good  old  Green  Flag  floats 
Once  more  in  the  face  of  the  scarlet  coats"— 
Then  fiercely  and  full  at  your  foemen's  throats 
Spring  once  again. 

God  of  our  Fathers !  God  of  Peace ! 
Grant  us  from  factious  feuds  release, 
For  never  until  these  shall  cease 

Can  the  old  Flag,  rise  again. 


LINES  ON  THE  RUSSO-TURKISH .  WAR. 

So  far  as  I  can  reason  down 

The  complex  Eastern  question, 
A  Turkey  done  exceeding  brown 

Would  suit  the  Czar's  digestion. 
Be  trussed  it  must  with  bayonets  first, 

And  peppered  well  with  powder, 
Then,  sliced  out  into  provinces, 

'Twill  make  a  famous  chowder. 

Poor  Turkey  can  not  bear  a  yolk, 

Though  turkey-eggs  bear  pullets, 
Nor  can  the  sultan  see  the  joke 

Of  making  his  eggs  bullets. 
Though  he  has  got  a  hundred  wives, 

He  dearly  loves  Moll  Davia, 
And  Galatz  is  the  kind  of  "  gal" 

He  wouldn't  part  to  save  you. 

D 


74  The  Poetical  Works  of 


Though  men-shake-off  the  Russian  wiles, 

Still  Men-tshi-koff  is  great,  sir, 
And  the  Dardan-elles  are  crooked  miles, 

Although  they  call  them  "  Strait,"  sir. 
The  sultan  in  his  harem  sits 

While  things  go  harum-scarum  ; 
He  gets  in-sultin'  messages, 

And  can  not  choose  but  bear  'em. 

The  Turk  appeals  to  God  and  Truth, 

But  suffers  nevertheless  he, 
For  Gortschakoff,  beside  the  Pruth 

At  Jassy,  gives  him  Jessy. 
With  Gortscha-koff  and  Mentschi-koff 

His  breast  has  got  a-stuffin', 
And,  if  he  can  not  shake  them  off, 

These  koifs  will  nail  his  coffin. 

The  czar  is  clad  in  costly  furs 

From  Vashka  and  Yakaka, 
While  Turkey's  sole  defense  from  koffs 

Is  Redschid  Ali  Pacha. 
The  sultan  to  the  Prophet  prays — 

No  profit  comes  a-near  him  ; 
And  though  his  Porte  be  called  sublime, 

It  has  no  strength  to  cheer  him. 

He  prays  to  Mecca,  but  he  finds 

The  mecha-nism  rusty ; 
His  prayer  can  not  unlock  the  gate, 

And  so  the  Porte  grows  crusty. 
His  viziers  put  their  visors  down, 

And  will  not  face  the  tussle ; 
Alas !  the  faithful  Mussulmans 

Have  neither  brain  nor  muscle. 

Dis-turbin'  hands  his  turban  touch, 

His  hookah  it  is  hooked,  sir, 
And  soon  before  a  Cossack  fire 

Will  Turkey's  goose  be  cooked,  sir. 
His  Mamelukes  to  mammy  look,  . 

Nor  are  for  battle  pressing ; 
His  pachas  of  a  dozen  tails 

Have  tales  the  most  distressing. 

His  dragomans  can't  drag  a  man 
To  fight— the  Turks  ain't  stupid ; 

His  eunuchs  are  as  impotent 
For  Mars  as*  eke  for  Cupid. 


diaries  Graham  Hal/pine.  75 


There's  not  a  man  in  his  divan 
In  honor's  van  will  die,  sir ; 

Before  the  storm  that  Bruin  brews 
The  Turkey  soon  must  fly,  sir. 

The  Turks  gave  shelter  to  Kossuth — 

For  this  esteemed  their  souls  are : 
May  they  ne'er  know  a  Hungary  day, 

Partitioned  as  the  Poles  are. 
May  Allah  and  the  Christian's  God 

Confound  unchristian  czars,  sir, 
And  may  the  Turkish  moon  be  girt 

With  bright  Columbian  stars,  sir. 


TO  LAURA. 

We  must  not  show  the  hidden  bower, 
Where  love's  high  feasts  are  holden  ; 

We  must  not  let  another  see 

The  secret  flower,  perfumed  and  golden, 

That  twinkles  on  the  shadowy  lea 
For  thee  and  me, 

Dear  Laura. 

We  must  not  show  the  priceless  gem 
That  gleams  in  pleasure's  casket ; 

No  jealous  eye  its  light  may  see, 
Lest  those  who  envy  us  should  ask  it, 

Or  question  how  it  came  to  be 
With  thee  and  me, 

Dear  Laura. 

We  must  not  show  the  hidden  spring 
Where  passion  cools  its  fever ; 

We  must  not  let  the  slightest  sound 
Betray  our  joy,  but  be  forever 

Mute  as  the  woods  that  wave  around 
Our  hallowed  ground, 

My  Laura. 

Oh,  could  we  flee,  like  doves,  afar 

From  custom's  iron  bondage, 
To  some  rich  isle  in  the  Southern  Sea, 

There,  in  the  wood's  enwoven  frondage, 
With  all  our  beings  linked,  to  be 

Unwatched  and  free, 

Dear  Laura. 


76  The  Poetical  Works  of 


Still,  in  the  world  be  cold,  reserved, 

With  social  fetters  laden  ; 
The  humble  minstrel,  what  were  he 

To  win  the  heart  of  this  proud  maiden  ? 
But  there  are  hours — thank  heaven  there  be — 

For  thee  and  me, 

My  Laura. 

I  would  not  change  my  pride  of  song 

For  all  a  prince's  treasure  ; 
Not  all  the  wealth  beneath  the  sea 

Could  yield  its  lord  such  passionate  pleasure 
As  when,  upon  the  shadowy  lea, 

I  pluck  the  golden  flower  with  thee, 
And  kiss  the  gem  which  none  may  see 

Save  thee  and  me, 

My  Laura. 


AT  THE  SEA-SIDE. 

The  bay  lay  sobbing  at  our  feet$ 

The  night  was  dark,  and  warm,  and  calm, 
We  felt  the  throbbing  pulses  beat 

Each  in  the  other's  palm. 

Behind  us,  crested  on  the  Tbank, 

Were  great  hotels  a-gleam  with  lights, 

Where  youth  and  beauty,  wealth  and  rank, 
Held  revel  through  the  nights. 

But  round  us  all  was  hushed  and  dark — 
No  sound  except  the  sobbing  bay — 

No  light,  save  when  some  phosphor-spark 
Flashed  upward  in  the  spray. 

There  on  the  rocks  we  talked  of  love — 
An  old,  lost  love — till  on  my  breast 

Her  head,  like  some  o'erwearied  dove, 
Came  fluttering  down  to  rest. 

Between  us  and  the  anchored  light 
That  marks  the  shoal  beneath  its  lee, 

We  watched  the  white  and  ghostly  flight 
Of  schooners  out  to  sea. 

We  talked  of  freighted  ships,  that  sailed 
From  bays  like  this  with  no  return ; 

We  talked  of  many  hopes  that  failed 
To  reach  the  promised  bourne. 


Charles  Graham  Halpine.  77 


We  sat,  recalling  all  the  past — 

The  march  and  camp  in  prairie  lands, 

Our  canvas  cities  rising  fast 
Along  the  Southern  sands. 

Our  canters  through  the  scented  pine, 
The  halts  in  many  an  orange  grove, 

The  wreaths  of  yellow  jessamine 
That  round  our  heads  we  wove. 

And  then  came  up,  in  sad  review, 
Full  many  a  friend  in  battle  slain, 

And  all  the  war  that  either  knew 
Before  us  passed  again. 

And  tremulous  grew  the  clasping  palm, 
And  gentlier  sank  the  fair  dear  head, 

And  o'er  our  souls  a  deeper  calm 
Than  o'er  the  bay  was  spread — 

A  calm  of  pained  and  softened  thought, 
A  tender  trance  of  vanished  years — 

A  ghostly  mirror,  quaintly  wrought, 
In  which  the  past  appears. 

And  still,  as  sadder  grew  the  theme, 
Her  hand  crept  closelier  into  mine, 

And  on  my  breast,  in  deeper  rest, 
I  felt  her  head  decline. 

Oh,  dark  blue  bay,  with  your  anchored  light, 
Your  belt  of  hills  and  your  silver  shore, 

For  the  freighted  hearts  relaunched  to-night, 
What  harbor  has  Fate  in  store  ? 


WASHINGTON'S  BIRTHDAY,  1865. 13 

AN   APPEAL  TO   THE  PATRIOTIC  AND  BENEVOLENT  FOB  A  SOLDIER'S  HOME. 

Forever  past  the  days  of  gloom — 

The  long,  sad  days  of  doubt  and  fear — 
When  woman,  by  her  idle  loom, 
Heard  the  dread  battle's  nearing  boom 

With  clasped  hands  and  straining  ear  ; 
While  each  new  hour  the  past  pursues 

With  farther  threat  of  loss  and  pain, 
Till  the  sick  senses  would  refuse 
To  longer  drink  the  bloody  news 

That  told  of  sons  and  brothers  slain. 


78  The  Poetical  Works  of 


The  days  of  calm  at  length  are  won, 

And,  sitting  thus,  with  folded  hands. 
We  talk  of  great  deeds  greatly  done, 
While  all  the  future  seems  to  run 

A  silvery  tide  o'er  golden  sands. 
With  pomp  the  votive  sword  and  shield 

The  saviors  of  the  land  return, 
And  while  new  shrines  to  peace  we  build. 
On  our  great  banner's  azure  field 

Yet  larger  constellations  burn. 

Who  boi:e  the  flag — who  won  the  day  ? 

The  young,  proud  manhood  of  the  land. 
Called  from  the  forge  and  plow  away, 
They  seized  the  weapons  of  the  fray 

With  eager  but  untutored  hand ; 
They  swarmed  o'er  all  the  roads  that  led 

To  where  the  peril  hotliest  burned — 
By  night,  by  day,  their  hurrying  tread 
Still  southward  to  the  struggle  sped, 

Nor  ever  from  their  purpose  turned. 

Why  tell  how  long  the  contest  hung, 

Now  crowned  with  hope,  and  now  depressed. 
And  now  the  varying  balance  swung^, 
Until,  like  gold  in  furnace  flung, 

The  truth  grew  stronger  for  the  test  ? 
'Twas  our  own  blood  we  had  to  meet ; 

'Twas  with  full  peers  our  swords  were  crossed. 
Till  in  the  march,  assault,  retreat, 
And  in  the  school  of  stern  defeat, 

We  learned  success  at  bloody  cost. 

Oh,  comrades  of  the  camp  and  deck, 

All  that  is  left  by  pitying  Fate 
Of  those  who  bore  through  fire  and  wreck, 
With  sinewy  arm  and  stubborn  neck, 

His  flag  whose  birth  we  celebrate — 
Oh,  men,  whose  names  forever  bright 
.  On  history's  golden  tablet  graved— 
By  land,  by  sea,  who  waged  the  fight, 
What  guerdon  will  you  ask  to-night 

For  service  done,  for  perils  braved  ? 

The  charging  lines  no  more  we  see, 
No  more  we  hear  the  din  of  strife, 
Nor  under  every  greenwood  tree, 
Stretched  in  their  life's  great  agony, 

Are  those  who  Avait  the  surgeon's  knife  ; 


Charles  Graham  Halpine.  79 


No  more  the  bloodied  stretchers  drip. 

The  jolting  ambulances  groan  ; 
No  more,  while  all  the  senses  slip, 
We  hear  frcm  the  soon  silent  lip 

The  prayer  for  death  as  balm  alone. 

And  ye,  who  on  the  sea's  blue  breast, 

And  down  the  rivers  of  the  land, 
With  clouds  of  thunder  as  a  crest, 
Where  still  your  conquering  prows  were  pressed, 

War's  lightnings  wielded  in  your  hand — 
Ye  too,  released,  no  longer  feel 

The  threat  of  battle,  storm,  and  rock-'- 
Torpedoes  grating  on  the  keel, 
While  the  strained  sides  with  broadsides  reel, 

And  turrets  feel  the  indenting  shock. 

Joint  saviors  of  the  land,  to-day 

What  guerdon  ask  you  of  the  land  ? 
No  boon  too  great  for  you  to  pray — 
What  can  it  give  that  could  repay 

The  men  we  miss  from  our  worn  band  ? 
The  men  who  lie  in  trench  and  swamp, 

The  dead  who  rock  beneath  the  wave — 
The  brother-souls  of  march  and  camp — 
Bright  spirits — each  a  shining  lamp, 

Teaching  how  nobly  die  the  brave. 

And  thou,  Great  Shade !  in  whom  was  nursed 

The  germ  and  grandeur  of  our  land — 
In  peace,  in  war,  in  reverence  first, 
Who  taught  our  infancy  to  burst 

The  tightening  yoke  of  Britain's  hand — 
Thou,  too,  from  thy  celestial  height 

Will  join  the  prayer  we  make  to-day — 
' '  Homes  for  the  crippled  in  the  fight, 
And  what  of  life  is  left  made  bright 

By  all  that  gratitude  can  pay. " 

Teach  these  who  loll  in  gilded  seats, 

With  nodding  plume  and  jeweled  gown, 
Boasting  a  pedigree  that  dates 
Back  to  the  men  who  swayed  the  fates 

When  thou  wert  battling  Britain's  crown, 
That,  ere  the  world  a  century  swims 

Through  time,  this  poor  blue-coated  host, 
With  brevet  rank  of  shattered  limbs, 
Will  swell  to  fame  in  choral  hymns, 

And  be  of  pride  the  proudest  boast. 


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Homes  for  the  heroes  we  implore — 
The  brave,  who  limbs  and  vigor  gave 

That — North  and  South,  from  shore  to  shore, 

One  free,  rich,  boundless  country  o'er — 
The  flag  of  Washington  might  wave ; 

The  flag  that  first— the  day  recall- 
Long  years  ago,  one  summer  morn,  « 

Plashed  up  o'er  Independence  Hall, 

A  meteor-messenger  to  all 

That  a  new  nation  here  was  born. 

Oh,  wives  and  daughters  of  the  land, 

To  every  gentler  impulse  true, 
To  you  we  raise  the  invoking  hand : 
Take  pity  on  our  stricken  band, 

These  demigods  disguised  in  blue. 
More  sweet  than  coo  of  pairing  birds 

Your  voice  when  urging  gentle  deeds, 
And  power  and  beauty  clothe  her  words — 
A  west  wind  through  the  heart's  thrilled  chord:- 

When  woman's  voice  for  pity  pleads. 

To  you  I  leave  the  soldier's  doom — 

Your  glistening  eyes  assure  me  right ; 
Oh  think,  through  many  a  night  of  gloom, 
When  round  you  all  was  light  and  bloom, 

And  he  preparing  for  the  fight, 
The  soldier  bade  his  fancy  roam 

Far  from  the  foe's  battalions  proud — 
From  camps,  and  hot  steeds'  charging  foam, 
And  fondly  on  your  breast  at  home 

The  forehead  of  his  spirit  bowed. 

Oh,  by  the  legions  of  the  dead, 

Whose  ears  even  yet  our  love  may  reach — 
Whose  souls,  in  fight  or  prison  fled, 
Now  swarm  in  column  overhead, 

Winging  with  fire  my  faltering  speech — 
From  stricken  fields  and  ocean  caves 

I  hear  their  voice  and  cry  instead  : 
"  Gazing  upon  our  myriad  graves, 
Be  generous  to  the  crippled  braves 

Who  were  the  comrades  of  the  dead. " 

Our  cause  was  holy  to  the  height 
•    Of  holiest  cause  to  manhood  given  ; 
For  peace  and  liberty  to  smite, 
And  while  the  warm  blood  bounded  bright, 
For  these  to  die,  if  called  by  heaven. 


Charles  Graham  Halpine.  81 


The  dead  are  cared  for  :  in  the  clay 

The  grinning  skull  no  laurel  seeks  ; 
But  for  the  wounded  in  the  fray, 
It  is  through  my  weak  lips  to-day 
The  Order  of  the  Legion  speaks. 


HURRAH  FOR  GORDON  GRANGER. 

Come,  boys,  a  toast !  our  pride  and  boast — 
To  friends  a  joy,  to  fear  a  stranger ; 

Brim  every  glass,  and  let  it  pass — 
The  health  of  Gordon  Granger ! 

His  manly  grace  of  form  and  face 

Made  women  bless  our  stalwart  ranger ; 

Her  sparkling  eyes,  her  tenderest  sighs 
Were  all  for  Gordon  Granger. 

Each  rebel  lass,  to  see  him  pass, 

To  loyalty  the  sight  would  change  her ; 

For  "  Union"  she  would  henceforth  be 
With  winsome  Gordon  Granger. 

We  turned  to  hear  his  voice  of  cheer 
On  many  a  field  of  death  and  danger ; 

The  rebel  foe  soon  came  to  know 
Our  yells  for  Gordon  Granger. 

No  finer  clay,  for  feast  or  fray, 

Since  the  Babe  Divine  lay  in  the  manger, 
Has  blessed  the  earth,  than  had  its  birth 

With  General  Gordon  Granger. 

So  here's  his  health !     Long  life  and  wealth, 
And  years  of  peace  exempt  from  danger 

Forevermore — so  prays  his  corps — 
Be  round  our  Gordon  Granger. 


MA  NORMANDIE.  , 

FEOM  THE  FRENCH  OP  BEBANGEE. 

When  hope  buds  forth  in  vernal  primer 
And  winter  flies  on  sunny  wings 

Far  from  our  country's  lovely  clime, 

And  June  her  fresh,  warm  radiance  flings : 


82  The  Poetical  Works  of 


When  Nature's  bloom  again  we  see, 
And  swallows  skim  the  jocund  earth, 

I  love  to  visit  Normandie — 
It  is  the  country  of  my  birth. 

I  have  seen  the  Switzer's  scenery, 

His  cottage  home  and  glaciers ; 
The  unclouded  skies  of  Italy, 

Sweet  Venice  and  her  gondoliers : 
Where'er  I  roamed  or  chanced  to  be, 

I  cried,  "There  is  no  place  on  earth 
So  dear  to  me  as  Normandie — 

It  is  the  country  of  my  birth. " 

There  comes  a  time  to  all,  alack ! 

When  eveiy  day-dream  flies  away, 
And  wh'en  the  wearied  soul  falls  back 

To  memories  of  a  brighter  day. 
When  my  cold^Muse  nor  warbles  free 

Her  songs  of  love  or  songs  of  mirth, 
111  seek  fresh  fire  in  Normandie — 

It  is  the  country  of  my  birth. 


THE  MIDNIGHT  WATCH. 

'Tis  late — but  thus  I  mused  and  read, 

While  all  around  in  slumber  nod ; 
O  Night !  to  those  who  will  but  heed, 

Thou  art  the  sermon-time  of  God ! 
Our  house  is  hushed — a  smouldering  fire 

Burns  low  within  the  glowing  grate, 
And  one  by  one  the  lamps  expire — 

Fit  time  to  meditate. 

How  hushed  !     The  morning  breeze  evokes 

A  thrill  of  terror — ghostly — dim ! 
The  grim  clock  deals  some  fearful  strokes 

On  Time's  outspreading  cherubim. 
The  muffled  Hours,  with  hurrying  feet, 

Still  bear  to  the  eternal  gate 
Reproachful  thoughts — an  offering  meet — 

From  those  who  meditate. 

No  sound  save  when  the  wainscot  mouse 
Or,  crumbling  cinder  bids  us  start — 

Sepulchral  silence  in  the  house, 
And  turmoil  in  the  sleepless  heart. 


Charles  Graham  Halpine.  83 


Oh,  dreams  of  youth !  ye  seem  to  creep 
In  formless  vapors  from  the  grate 

Round  one  to  whom  the  eternal  sleep 
Comes  welcome,  if  not  late ! 


MILES  ON  THE  WHITE  FAWN.14 

A  fairy  scene  of  colored  light, 

Of  gorgeous  dress  and  magic  changes, 
Where  still  the  gazer's  dazzled  sight 

From  beauty  to  new  beauty  ranges. 
Now  rings  the  music  clear  and  high, 

Now  seems  to  die — now  swells  in  clangors : 
Voluptuous  visions  fill  the  eye, 

And  thrill  the  pulse  with  tropic  languors. 

A  dream  grotesque,  supremely  warm, 

A  whirling  swarm  of  fancies  devious ; 
The  central  figure — woman's  form — 

Elastic,  languishing,  lascivious. 
The  arching  thigh,  the  rounded  calf, 

Ankles  and  feet  of  tapering  lightness — 
Plump  bosoms,  too  unveiled  by  half, 

And  waving  arms  of  marble  whiteness. 


THE  PARTING. 

Sadly  from  my  host  I  parted, 
Stiff  he  was,  but  genial-hearted, 
And  a  tear  unbidden  started 

As  I  lingeringly  delayed. 
There  the  mother  stood  before  us, 
Prim  as  ever,  and  decorous, 
But  her  eye  a  meaning  bore  us 

Kinder  than  her  tongue  conveyed. 

Round  the  supper-room  the  glowing 

Logs  a  fitful  light  were  throwing, 

While  the  night-breeze,  hoarsely  blowing, 

Murmured  through  the  circling  trees. 
"  Friends,  adieu !     I  must  oppose  you ; 
HI  repaid  the  debt  he  owes  you, 
If  your  guest  should  now  expose  you 

Unto  drafts  so  rude  as  these. " 


The  Poetical  Works  of 


Cruel  Laura  seemed  delighted 
At  my  leaving — "  111  requited 
Love,"  I  thought,  and  yet  she  lighted 

Me,  departing,  to  the  door. 
Suddenly — of  no  use  saying 
How — the  breeze,  a  frolic  playing, 
Blew  the  light  out,  and  delaying 

Grew  more  pleasant  than  before. 

Dank  and  cold  the  midnight  drizzle — 
"  One  adieu !     I  hear  the  whistle !" 
Something  seemed  to  strive  and  wrestle. 

And  we  tore  ourselves  apart. 
What  took  place  I  have  an  inkling, 
For  my  ear  was  smartly  tingling, 
And  another  soul  seemed  mingling, 

Lip-conducted,  through  my  heart. 


A  MORNING  SERENADE. 

FBOM  THE  FBENCH. 

Rose,  the  red  sun  peeps  o'er  the  hill, 

Oh  quit  your  couch's  soft  retreat ; 
Dost  thou  not  hear  the  village  bell 

Chime  forth  the  hour  when  we  should  meet  ? 
The  crowded  town  no  pleasure  yields, 

Then  hie  with  me — oh,  hie  away, 
And,  wandering  through  the  flowery  fields, 

We'll  pass  in  love  the  summer's  day. 

Come,  Rose,  the  fields  with  flowers  are  crowned, 

My  arm  thy  gentle  prop  shall  be ; 
With  loving  nature  all  around, 

We  too  will  love  more  tenderly. 
The  woodbine  bower  the  linnet  shields, 

And  there  it  sings  the  livelong  day ; 
Then  haste — oh,  haste  thee  to  the  fields, 

Where  hours,  like  moments,  glide  away. 

In  rustic  form  our  life  to  mould, 

We'll  rise  when  dawn's  first  glances  peep, 
And  evening's  shadows  on  the  wold 

Shall  heral^  our  untroubled  sleep. 
Perchance  to  thee  this  prospect  yields 

But  tedious  days  and  weary  hours  ; 
Or  dost  thou  love  the  scented  fields, 

The  song-birds  and  the  breezy  bowers  ? 


Charles  Graham?  Hal/pine.  85 


She  comes !  the  town  no  more  appears ; 

Oh,  hateful  city,  fare  thee  well ; 
Where  Art  her  lifeless  beauty  rears, 

But  genuine  passion  dare  not  dwell. 
Rose,  let  us  quit  Parisian  noise 

For  sweet  seclusion  far  away, 
Our  moments  crowned  with  rustic  joys, 

Our  love  increasing  day  by  day. 


THE  LAST  APPEAL. 

Brethren,  'tis  the  last  appeal 

Of  human  woe  to  outraged  heaven  ; 

God  witness  for  us  that  we  feel 

Reluctant  all  to  draw  the  steel, 
But  what  hope  else  to  us  is  given? 
The  bonds  of  social  concord  riven, 
We  try  the  last  appeal. 

Brethren,  on !  one  stubborn  fight, 

And  peace  for  evermore  shall  be ;' 
The  red  sea's  wave  will  soon  unite 
Above  the  vanquished  hosts  of  Might, 
And  conquest  lead  us  into  thee, 
Dear  Canaan  of  liberty, 

Where  God  protects  the  Right. 

Brethren,  Power's  triumphant  heel 
Hath  struck  us  oft,  but  now  we  turn, 

And  they  who  wronged  us  soon  shall  feel 

The  spell  that  lies  in  patriot  zeal 

Their  bonds  to  break,  their  threats  to  spurn 
The  victor's  wreath  and  martyr's  urn 
Await  this  last  appeal. 


THE  MINER'S  DREAM. 

I  lie  all  cold  and  lonely 

Beneath  an  elm  at  night, 
When  the  stars  are  shining  only, 

And  the  glow-worm  twinkles  bright ; 
I  sleep  where  the  star-gleams  quiver, 

And  my  restless  memories  roam 
Away  from  the  golden  river 

To  my  boyhood's  happy  home. 


86  The  Poetical  Works  of 


The  golden  dream  is  fleeting 

Away  from  my  troubled  sight, 
And  my  heart  with  hope  is  beating 

As  I  see  the  cottage  light ; 
My  old  rude  cot  before  me, 

Where  in  by-gone  hours  I  dwelt 
Ere  the  clouds  of  life  came  o'er  me, 

When  no  care  my  bosom  felt. 

And  I  see  my  mother  smiling 
With  a  faint,  uneasy  mirth, 

While  my  father's  hands  were  piling 
'The  fagots  on  the  hearth ; 

And  they  whisper  ever  lowly — 
Yea,  I  think  I  hear  my  name ; 

It  was  breathed  in  accents  holy, 
And  a  tear-drop  with  it  came. 

The  golden  sands  are  gleaming 

In  the  ruddy  flush  of  dawn, 
The  golden  sun  is  beaming, 

And  my  mighty  dream  is  gone ; 
But  ever  and  forever 

In  my  sleep  my  wild  thoughts  roam 
Away  from  the  golden  river 

To  my  boyhood's  happy  home. 


THE  WIDOWER'S  CHRISTMAS. 

Oh  Christmas  night !  thy  spectral  hand  outreaches, 
Drawing  aside  the  curtain  of  the  years ; 

Let  us  give  gifts,  let  us  make  happy  speeches, 
If  but  to  hide— to  hide  the  blinding  tears. 

Oh  Christmas  night !  again  the  table  glistens 
With  gold  and  crystal,  and  the  wine  is  red; 

But  my  heart's  ear  in  throbbing  silence  listens 
For  her  sweet  voice — my  beautiful,  my  dead ! 

Oh  Christmas  night !  the  children,  gladly  screaming, 
Dance  in  young  rapture  round  the  lighted  tree ; 

And  thus  I  watch  them  while  my  soul  is  dreaming — 
Dreaming  of  her  mine  eyes  no  more  may  see. 

Oh  Christmas  night !  again  thy  feast  returning, 
Darker  by  contrast  makes  my  darkness  be, 

And  all  thy  lamps  seem  funeral  torches  burning 
For  the  dear  face  I  never  more  may  see. 


Charles  Graham  Halpine.  87 


BLACK  LOYALTY. 

LET  THE  TRUTH  OF  HI8TOBY  BE  PRESERVED. 

Nigh  a  million  of  lives  we  have  spent, 

And  three  billions  of  dollars  or  more, 
That  each  fetter -in  twain  should  be  rent, 

And  the  slave-horn  be  heard  never  more ; 
Full  six  years  we  have  given  to  the  Black, 

And  the  thing  was  undoubtedly  right ; 
Now  suppose,  just  to  alter  the  tack, 

We  devote  half  an  hour  to  the  White  ? 

When  the  South,  in  its  hour  of  mad  pride, 

At  Fort  Sumter  let  >drive  the  first  shot, 
Neck  and  heels  our  poor  Sambo  was  tied, 

And  the  North  held  one  end  of  the  knot ; 
But  our  hold  we  let  go  at  the  sound, 

For  both  hands  we  required  in  the  fight, 
And  the  war  for  the  Black  was  then  found 

Quite  a  tough  job  of  work  for  the  White. 

Well,  we  fought — ay,  for  four  years  we  fought, 

Pouring  out  lavish  treasure  and  life — 
Did  the  Black  then  arise  as  he  ought, 

Cleaving  northward  with  torch  and  with  knife  ? 
All  his  masters  were  far  from  his  track, 

Under  Johnston  and  Lee  in  the  fight ; 
There  was  nothing  to  hold  the  Black  back 

From  assisting  his  champion,  the  White. 

Did  he  aid  us  when  bleeding  we  stood 

To  chase  from  him  slavery's  dreams, 
Or  to  Lee  sent  he  clothing  and  food, 

Harness,  powder,  equipments,  and  teams  ? 
,  We  all  know  that  in  one  single  state 

A  revolt  would  have  ended  the  fight, 
So  no  more  of  their  "loyalty"  prate, 

For  the  Black  rebs  were  worse  than  the  White. 

The  White  rebels  came  with  a  cheer, 

Their  bayonets  aslant  and  aglow, 
While  the  Black  rebels  slunk  in  the  rear, 

Assisting  (and  freely)  our  foe ; 
Phillips,  Sumner,  and  men  of  that  school, 

May  click-clatter  from  morning  till  night, 
But  if  Black  or  White  rebels  must  rule, 

Then,  by  heaven !  count  me  in  for  the  White. 


88  The  Poetical  Works  of 


It  would  sicken  a  dog,  this  vile  cant 

That  we  hear  of  "Black  loyalty"  now, 
And  I  notice  the  twaddlers  who  rant 

On  the  subject  were  far  from  the  row ; 
But  since  cold  has  been  Lee's  latest  gun, 

And  since  Johnston  stacked  arms  after  fight, 
We  are  told  "  by  Black  valor  we  won" — 

'Tis  all  humbug  to  laurel  the  White. 

To  the  Black  rebel  glory  and  power, 

To  the  White  rebel  chains  and  disgrace ; 
Oh,  madness,  and  worse,  rules  the  hour — 

We  are  false  to  faith,  wisdom,  and  race ! 
To  my  heart  with  you,  Longstreet  and  Hill, 

Johnston,  Lee — every  man  in  the  fight — 
You  were  rebels,  and  bad  ones,  but  still 

You  share  my  misfortune — you're  White. 


THE  QUAKER  COQUETTE. 

Dear  coy  coquette,  but  once  we  met — 

But  once,  and  yet  'twas  once  too  often, 
Plunged  unawares  in  silvery  snares, 

All  vain  my  prayers  her  heart  to  soften ; 
Yet  seemed  so  true  her  eyes  of  blue, 

Veined  lids  and  longest  lashes  under, 
Good  angels  dwelt  therein,  I  felt, 

And  could  have  knelt  in  reverent  wonder. 

Poor  heart,  alas !  what  eye  could  pass 

The  auburn  mass  of  curls  caressing 
Her  pure  white  brow,  made  regal  now 

By  this  simplicity  of  dressing. 
Lips  dewy,  red  as  Cupid's  bed 

Of  rose-leaves  shed  on  Mount  Hymettus, 
With  balm  imbued  they  might  be  wooe*d, 

But  ah !  coy  prude,  she  will  not  let  us. 

No  jewels  deck  her  radiant  neck — 

What  pearl  would  reck  its  hue  to  rival  ? 
A  pin  of  gold — the  fashion  old — 

A  ribbon-fold,  or  some  such  trifle ; 
And — beauty  chief!  the  lily's  leaf 

In  dark  relief  sets  off  the  whiteness 
Of  all  the  breast  not  veiled  and  pressed 

Beneath  her  collar's  Quaker  tightness. 


Charles  Graham  Halpine. 


And  milk-white  robes  o'er  snowier  globes, 

As  Koman  maids  are  drawn  by  Gibbbn, 
With  classic  taste  are  gently  braced 

Around  her  waist  beneath  a  ribbon ; 
And  thence  unrolled  in  billowy  fold 

Profuse  and  bold — a  silken  torrent — 
Not  hide,  but  dim  each  rounded  limb, 

Well  turned,  and  trim,  and  plump,  I  warrant. 

Oh,  Quaker  maid,  were  I  more  staid, 

Or  you  a  shade  less  archly  pious  ; 
If  soberest  suit  from  crown  to  boot 

Could  chance  uproot  your  Quaker  bias, 
How  gladly  so,  in  weeds  of  woe, 

From  head  to  toe  my  frame  I'd  cover, 
That  in  the  end  the  convert  "  friend" 

Might  thus  ascend — a  convert  lover. 


BLESSING  THE  SHAMROCK. 

God's  blessing  and  his  holy  smile 
On  the  emblem-leaf  of  Erin's  Isle, 

Our  green  immortal  shamrock. 
From  Irish  hills,  though  far  away, 
Through  this  bright  Western  land  we  stray, 
From  every  leaf  there  comes  a  ray 
Of  the  olden  light — of  the  olden  day, 

While  gazing  on  the  shamrock. 

Saint  Patrick  found  upon  the  sod 
This  emblem  of  our  triple  God, 

And  taught  us  by  the  shamrock 
The  mystery  of  our  creed  divine, 
How  one  in  three  distinct  may  shine,    ' 
Yet  three  in  one,  as  leaves,  combine, 
And  their  joint  blessings  intertwine — 

:Tis  a  lesson  from  the  shamrock. 

And  the  three  virtues  which  are  dear 
To  Irish  hearts  are  emblemed  here 

Within  our  three-leaved  shamrock : 
Fidelity,  that  knows  no  end 
To  country,  sweetheart,  faith,  or  friend  ; 
Courage,  that  no  reverse  can  bend ; 
And  hospitality — all  blend 

Their  types  within  the  shamrock. 


90  The  Poetical  Works  of 


So  may  Heaven's  blessings,  choice  and  chief, 
Bedew  each  petal  of  thy  leaf, 

Our  own  immortal  shamrock  ; 
And  mayest  thou,  in  this  Western  clime, 
As  long  ago,  in  Ireland's  prime, 
Be  emblem  of  a  faith  sublime 
In  God  and  Country,  through  all  time, 

Our  green  and  glorious  shamrock. 

And  may  our  proud  and  ancient  race, 
Uprooted  from  the  dwelling-place 

Where  grew  this  votive  shamrock, 
Still  keep  this  night,  where'er  they  fly, 
Sacred  to  memories  dear  and  high 
Of  the  land  where  all  our  kindred  lie 
In  the  green  graves,  made  beauteous  by 

Thick  verdure  of  the  shamrock. 

God  bless  the  old  dear  spot  of  earth — 
God  bless  the  green  land  of  our  birth, 

Where  grew  this  bunch  of  shamrock  ; 
And  blessings  on  this  generous  land, 
Which  welcomes  with  a  lavish  hand, 
Each  year,  the  sad  and  stricken  band 
Of  exiles  from  the  silver  strand 

Where  grows  the  saintly  shamrock. 


THE  LAST  RESORT. 

•WRITTEN  DTTBING  A  FRESHET  OF   STEAM-BOAT  EXPLOSIONS. 

A  dramatist  declared  he  had  got 
So  many  people  in  his  plot 
That  what  to  do  with  half  he  had 
Was  like  to  drive  him  drama-mad. 

"The  hero  and  the  heroine 
Of  course  are  married — very  fine ! 
But  with  the  others  what  to  do 
Is  more  than  I  can  tell — can  you?" 

His  friend  replied :  "  'Tis  hard  to  say, 
But  yet  I  think  there  is  a  way. 
The  married  couple  thank  their  stars, 
And  half  the  '  others'  take  the  cars  ; 

The  other  half  you  put  on  board 
A  racing  steam-boat — take  my  word, 
They'll  never  trouble  you  again. " 
The  dramatist  resumed  his  pen.' 


Charles  GraJiam  Halpine.  91 


LOAFING  AS  A  FINE  ART.15 

My  friend,  my  chum,  my  trusty  crony, 
We  were  designed,  it  seems  to  me, 

To  be  two  happy  lazzaroni, 

On  sunshine  fed  and  maccaroni, 
Far  off  by  some  Sicilian  sea. 

From  dawn  to  eve  in  the  happy  land, 

No  duty  on  us  but  to  lie — 
Straw-hatted  on  the  shining  sand, 
With  bronzing  chest,  and  arm,  and  hand — 

Beneath  the  blue  Italian  sky. 

There,  with  the  mountains  idly  glassing 

Their  purple  splendors  in  the  sea — 
To  watch  the  white-winged  vessels  passing 
(Fortunes  for  busier  fools  amassing), 
This  were  a  heaven  to  you  and  me. 

Our  meerschaums  coloring  cloudy  brown, 
Two  young  girls  coloring  with  a  blush, 
The  blue  waves  with  a  silver  crown, 
The  mountain  shadows  dropping  down, 
And  all  the  air  in  perfect  hush — 

Thus  should  we  lie  in  the  happy  land, 

Nor  fame,  nor  power,  nor  fortune  miss — 
Straw-hatted  on  the  shining  sand, 
With  bronzing  chest,  and  arm,  and  hand — 
Two  loafers  couched  in  perfect  bliss. 


A  MAINE-LAW  LYRIC. 

With  thickest  growth  of  beard  his  face 

Was  matted  in  a  ghastly  smile ; 
His  hat  preserved  the  faintest  trace 
Of  what  was  once  a  shapely  tile ; 
His  elbows  glimmered  through  his  coat, 
His  trowsers  needed  tailor's  care, 
His- boots  they  were  not  of  a  pair, 
And  through  them  you  his  toes  might  note. 
He  only  said,  "  It  is  the  tipple, 

The  tipple  'tis, "he  said; 
He  murmured,  "  Go  it  like  a  cripple, 
And  go  it  till  your  dead." 


92  The  Poetical  Works  of 


He  raised  his  hand  at  dewy  morn, 

He  raised  it  far  into  the  night, 
And,  in  a  tone  of  maudling  scorn, 

The  temperance  party  he  would  slight ; 
He  drank  his  glass,  and  called  for  more, 
With  trembling  fingers  searching  out 
For  dimes  within  the  tattered  clout 
Which  once  the  name  of  pocket  bore, 

He  only  said,  "It  is  the  tipple, 

The  tipple  'tis,"  he  said ; 
He  murmured,  "Go  it  like  a  cripple, 
And  go  it  till  you're  dead." 

And  ever  as  the  lamp  grew  dim, 

And  brandy  lay  beyond  his  reach, 
He  saw  pale  spectres  glare  at  him, 
And  mutter  fiercely  each  to  each. 
Oh,  they  were  hours  to  freeze  the  soul, 
When  those  blue  corpses  o'er  him  bent, 
And  to  convey  the  moral  meant, 
Each  fiend  upheld  a  glittering  bowl. 

He  only  said,  "It  is  the  tipple, 

The  tipple 'tis, "he  said; 
He  murmured,  "  Go  it  like  a  cripple, 
And  go  it  till  you're  dead." 

There  is  within  some  granite  walls 

A  high  and  hideous  wooden  thing, 
And  in  its  floor  a  door  that  falls 

Obedient  to  a  secret  spring ; 
Ay,  groan  and  shriek !     With  cries  and  tears, 
Mercy  of  earth  and  heaven  demand, 
A  wife's  red  blood  is  on  your  hand — 
Your  kindest  gift  to  her  for  years. 

So  ends  the  ballad  of  the  tipple : 

Be  warned,  and  pray,  and  think ; 
The  tap  is  Mother  Murder's  nipple — 
You  suck  blood  as  you  drink. 


JANETTE'S  HAIR. 

* '  Oh,  loosen  the  snood  that  you  wear,  Ja*hette, 
Let  me  tangle  a  hand  in  your  hair,  my  pet," 
For  the  world  to  me  had  no  daintier  sight 
Than  your  brown  hair  veiling  your  shoulders  white, 
As  I  tangled  a  hand  in  your  hair,  my  pet. 


Charles  Graham  Halpine.  93 


It  was  brown  with  a  golden  gloss,  Janette, 
It  was  finer  than  silk  of  the  floss,  my  pet, 
'Twas  a  beautiful  mist  falling  down  to  your  wrist, 
'Twas  a  thing  to  be  braided,  and  jeweled,  and  kissed — 
'Twas  the  loveliest  hair  in  the  world,  my  pet. 

My  arm  was  the  arm  of  a  clown,  Janette, 
It  was  sinewy,  bristled,  and  brown,  my  pet, 
But  warmly  and  softly  it  loved  to  caress 
Your  round  white  neck  and  your  wealth  of  tress — 
Your  beautiful  plenty  of  hair,  my  pet. 

Your  eyes  had  a  swimming  glory,  Janette, 
Revealing  the  old,  dear  story,  my  pet — 
They  were  gray,  with  that  chastened  tinge  of  Hie  sky, 
When  the  trout  leaps  quickest  to  snap  the  fly, 

And  they  matched  with  your  golden  hair,  my  pet. 

Your  lips — but  I  have  no  words,  Janette — 
They  were  fresh  as  the  twitter  of  birds,  my  pet, 
When  the  spring  is  young,  and  the  roses  are  wret 
With  the  dew-drops  in  each  red  bosom  set, 

And  they  suited  your  gold-brown  hair,  my  pet. 

Oh,  you  tangled  my  life  in  your  hair,  Janette, 
'Twas  a  silken  and  golden  snare,  my  pet, 
But,  so  gentle  the  bondage,  my  soul  did  implore 
The  right  to  continue  your  slave  evermore, 

With  my  fingers  enmeshed  in  your  hair,  my  pet. 
******* 
Thus  ever  I  dream  what  you  were,  Janette, 
With  your  lips,  and  your  eyes,  and  your  hair,  my  pet ; 
In  the  darkness  of  desolate  years  I  moan, 
And  my  tears  fall  bitterly  over  the  stone 

That  covers  your  golden  hair,  my  pet. 


LES  HIRONDELLES. 

A  captive  on  Africa's  shore, 

A  warrior  laden  with  chains, 
Cried  aloud,  "  I  behold  ye  once  more, 

As  ye  fly  from  the  frozen  plains, 
Ye  swallows,  whom  Hope,  in  despite 

Of  this  fierce-glowing  climate,  pursues ; 
From  France  ye  have  taken  your  flight — 

Of  my  home  do  ye  bring  me  no  news  ? 


94  The  Poetical  Works  of 


"  Three  summers  I've  begged  that  ye  might 

Kecall  the  fond  wishes  that  stray 
To  that  vale  where  in  dreams  of  delight 

My  youth  glided  swiftly  away ; 
To  the  river  whose  winding  waves  foam 

'Neath  lilac  bowers,  scenting  the  breeze ; 
Ye  have  perched  on  my  old  cottage-home — 

Have  ye  nothing  to  tell  me  of  these  ? 

"Perchance  your  young  nestlings  were  born 

'Neath  the  roof  where  I  welcomed  the  day ; 
Ye  have  pitied  my  mother's  heart  torn 

By  the  love  which  can  never  decay : 
Though  dying,  she  hopes  that  each  hour 

My  step  on  the  silence  will  break ; 
She  listens,  and  fast  her  tears  shower — 

Of  her  love  have  ye  nothing  to  speak  ? 

"My  sister !  perchance  she  is  wed ; 

Have  ye  seen  the  gay  youth  who  in  throngs 
At  the  feast  of  her  bridal  were  met, 

And  welcome  her  marriage  with  songs  ? 
And  those,  my  companions  of  yore, 

Who  lived  through  the  combats  we  fought — 
Do  they  dwell  in  the  village  once  more  ? 

Oh,  of  so  many  friends  know  ye  naught  ? 

"It  may  be  the  stranger's  foot  presses 

The  graves  in  the  vale  where  they  sleep ; 
My  home  a  new  master  possesses, 

My  sister  but  living  to  weep ; 
No  prayers  that  for  me  wing  to  heaven. 

And  torture  and  fetters  below : 
Your  silence  perchance  is  but  given 

To  spare  me  this  burden  of  woe." 


TO  AZRA. 

We  meet  once  more :  the  early  bloom 

Of  passion  perished  in  its  pride, 
And  slumbers  in  a  foreign  tomb, 

Beyond  a  dark  and  stormy  tide ; 
The  young  Evangel  faded  fast 

From  its  ethereal  form  of  clay ; 
That  sea  of  anguish — but  'tis  past, 

And  we  have  met  once  more  to-day. 


Charles  Graham  Halpine. 


95 


Thy  cheek  with  paler  tinge  imbued — 

Thine  eyes— ah !  where  their  mirthfud  glance  ? 
A  sense  of  former  pain  subdued 

Breathes  o'er  thy  gentle  countenance. 
My  heart !  how  bright,  in  older  days, 

The  smile  that  played  from  brow  to  chin. 
But  now,  as  through  a  setting  haze, 

The  sun  peeps  sadly  from  within. 

Thy  voice  is  changed  :  no  more  its  tone 

From  music's  ocean  may  emerge ; 
Thy  laugh  is  mingled  with  a  moan, 

Thy  words  of  hope  resound  a  dirge ; 
And  ever  through  thy  gay  discourse 

Some  thread  of  suffering  winds  along— 
A  clew  that  leads  with  mystic  force 

To  the  deep  fount  of  sadder  song. 

Love  lives — perhaps  in  purer  form — 

But  ah !  the  magic  thrills  no  more ; 
The  shipwrecked  pilgrim  of  the  storm 

May  prize  his  chance-directed  shore, 
But  from  its  desolate  cliffs  his  eye 

Will  range  in  vain  the  circling  seas, 
And  picture  a  more  brilliant  sky, 

A  lovelier  land,  that  once  was  his. 

Thy  hand !  time  was  its  faintest  touch, 

Like  sacred  fire,  lit  up  my  frame ; 
Those  dreams  of  youth,  those  hours  had  much 

That  memory  fondly  loves  to  claim. 
I  dreamed  my  soul  lay  soft  and  hushed 

As  was  the  sod  beneath  thy  feet ; 
Jt  gave  its  flowers,  and  they  were  crushed — 

And  once  again,  once  more  we  meet. 

Henceforth  the  world  may  smoothlier  pass. 

But  life's  one  star  shines  cold  and  dim ; 
Though  Fortune  prove  a  sea  of  glass, 

O'er  which  our  lives  uninjured  swim, 
Far  better  were  the  storm,  the  strife 

Which  overcast  our  earlier  suns : 
There  is  a  record  kept  in  life 

Where  love  but  stamps  his  signet  once. 

The  lip  that  quickest  wings  the  jest 
Is  first  to  breathe  the  secret  sigh  ; 

The  laugh  that  rings  with  freshest  zest 
But  chokes  the  floodgates  of  the  eye ; 


96 


The  Poetical  Works  of 


The  heart,  like  Egypt's  queen  of  old, 
Ne'er  lajjs  its  misery  see  the  light ; 

But  o'er  the  deadly  asp  we  fold 
The  garments  of  the  gala  night. 

And  months — ay,  long,  unsolaced  years 

Have  found  me  reckless,  loveless,  wild — 
A  man  who  is  not,  but  appears 

The  living  jest  at  which  he  smiled. 
There  is  a  pleasure  born  of  pain, 

When  all  its  outward  signs  depart, 
A  triumph  when  the  steadfast  brain 

Floats  calmly  o'er  the  struggling  heart. 

Forbear  thy  early  fire  to  feign, 

Nor  weep  that  I  am  colder  grown ; 
With  less  of  joy  and  less  of  pain, 

The  heart  assumes  a  temperate  tone ; 
Can  prayers  or  tears  revive  the  flowers 

Which  in  the  past  have  shrunk  and  died  ? 
Can  we  recall  the  golden  hours 

Whose  waves  are  in  the  eternal  tide  ? 

The  Hand  that  wrote  the  Persian's  fall, 

"  Weighed,  wanting,  worthless,  cast  aside,' 
The  dark  hand  on  the  glittering  wall 

Was  but  the  touchstone  of  his  pride  ; 
Adversity — another  hand — 

Revealed  thy  falsehood  and  my  fate ; 
Long  years  of  sorrow,  a  strange  land, 

And  a  reunion  given  too  late. 


THE  STARS  OF  MEMORY. 

In  retrospection's  dream  we  see 

The  waste  of  years  that  stretch  afar 
Into  the  dim  eternity, 

With  here  and  there  a  shining  star ; 
Sweet  stars  of  memory  beaming  o'er 
.     The  sepulchres  of  perished  hope, 
And  backward  turn  we  more  and  more, 
As  gloomier  paths  before  us  ope. 

We  turn  to  see  the  memoried  sky 
Grow  ruddy  in  the  youthful  dawn ; 

We  watch  the  glorious  shadows  fly 
Across  the  lake  and  o'er  the  lawn ; 


Charles  Graham  Halpine.  97 


The  evening  clouds  are  turned  to  gray, 
Though  streaked  by  many  a  crimson  bar, 

And  darkness  comes,  yet,  in  its  way, 
Lifts  up  to  heaven  full  many  a  star. 

It  lifts — but  not  the  star  of  morn, 

Whose  pale  beams  merge  in.  fuller  light, 
When  flowers  and  birds  seem  newly  born, 

And  freshened  by  the  dews  of  night ; 
Tli at  loveliest  light,  forever  set, 

No  second  morrow  bids  arise, 
And  sadly,  vainly,  we  regret 

The  lustre  that  has  left  our  skies, 

*The  Past  was  as  an  easy  road 

That  led  us  down  a  hill  of  flowers, 
Where  every  opening  vista  showed 

But  brighter  streams  and  greener  bowers. 
We  reach  at  length  the  barren  plain 

Where  man  contests  the  race  of  life ; 
We  join  the  struggle,  feel  the  pain, 

Yet  love  the  excitement  of  the  strife. 

We  love  the  strife  that  makes  the  tide 

Of  passion  swell  within  the  heart ; 
Nor  deem  we,  in  our  youthful  pride, 

Ambition's  pulse  can  e'er  depart ; 
We  love  it  while  our  hearts  are  strung 

With  high  romance  and  ancient  love ; 
We  love  it  while  our  hopes  are  young, 

And  paint  a  brighter  scene  before. 

But,  as  we  wander  on  and  on, 

Arid  weary  of  the  loveless  life, 
We  turn  to  find  the  flowers  are  gone 

Beneath  the  mailed  hoofs  of  strife  j 
We  wake  to  know  that  manhood  brings 

The  pain  that  finds  no  balm  in  tears ; 
We  wake  to  know  that  memory  stings  ; 

We  wake  to  mourn  the  by-gone  years. 

The  stubborn  soul  is  loth  to  quit 

The  dream  that  it  hath  made  its  god, 
And — forced  to  own  its  misery — yet 

Pursues  the  path  it  once  hath  trod  ; 
Looks  round  it,  with  a  careless  eyer 

On  others  equally  unbless'd, 
And  pinions  every  struggling  sigh 

Within  the  portals  of  the  breast. 

E 


98  The  Poetical  Works  of 


We  wander  on :  the  early -hope 

In  which,  beyond  the  sultry  plain, 
We  saw  serener  vistas  ope, 

Experience  proves  is  false  and  vain ; 
Forever  with  a  lengthening  chain, 

Forever  with  a  darker  pall, 
We  journey  to  the  grave  in  pain, 

And  see  our  fellow-bondsman  fall. 

Pride  checks  the  tear,  and  with  a  frown 

Would  chase  the  phantom  Grief  away ; 
The  snows  of  age  come  thickening  down, 

And  chill  and  bleaker  grows  the  way ; 
We  speak  what  we  would  fain  unsay, 

But  pride  steps  in  with  ready  ait, 
And  in  a  semblance  of  the  gay 

We  veil  the  sorrows  of  the  heart. 

Amid  the  gloom,  we  gladly  turn 

Where  none  may  mock  our  silent  tears, 
To  where  the  stars  of  memory  burn 

Above  the  joys  of  other  years  ; 
And  Fancy  in  the  dusk  uprears 

The  radiant  forms  of  perished  worth, 
Which  we  have  borne  on  flowery  biers, 

And  laid  within  the  lap  of  earth. 

O  stars  of  Memory !  ever  shine, 

And  brighter  as  our  years  decay ; 
Still  shed  your  influence  divine 

To  cheer  us  on  our  lonely  way. 
Bright  stars  of  Memory !  shine  forever, 

Like  beacons  o'er  the  troubled  main, 
Until  in  Lethe's  tranquil  river 

We  have  ablution  of  all  pain. 


SPIRIT  RAPPING. 

ON  THE  -INTRODUCTION  INTO    THE   MASSACHUSETTS   LEGISLATURE   OF  A  BILL   FOR 
flE  "  SUPPRESSION  OF  SPIRITUAL  MANIFESTATIONS." 

"De  par  le  Roi !    Defense  a  Dien 
De  faire  miracles  en  ce  lieu." 

What !  pass  a  statute  to  dispatch  'em ! 

It  is  a  proposition  rare ; 
Imprison — hang — when  you  first  catch  'em, 

The  bodiless  spirits  of  the  air  ? 


Charles  Graham  Halpine.  99 

Despise  all  reason — hear  no  question — 

The  scourge  of  legal  power  is  thine ; 
Condemn — and  then  ('twill  aid  digestion) 

Say  grace  before  you  dine: 

Of  oW,  when  glorious  Galileo 

Announced  the  planetary  plan, 
A  pope — a  sacerdotal  Leo — 

Declared  his  doctrine  under  ban  ; 
But,  though  the  Church  affirmed  his  error, 

The  world  has  since  his  truth  averred  ; 
And,  in  despite  of  condign  terror,  , 

The  spirits  will.be  heard. 

WThen  Franklin  raised  his  brawny  arm 

To  rob  the  lightning's  callow  nest, 
When  little  thunder-gods  did  swarm 

Beneath  the  electric  mother's  breast, 
Why  did  no  Yankee  pope  arise 

To  bid  the  impious  hand  withdraw, 
Spreading  an  segis  o'er  the  skies 

Of  Massachusetts  law  ? 

O  Liberty !  thou  splendid  word, 

We  do  adore  thy  clap-trap  name ; 
'Tis  reverenced  wheresoever  heard, 

But  violated  just  the  same. 
Shall  men  with  narrow  brows  and  hearts 

Forbid  our  spiritual  faith  ? 
Rap !  rap !  from  the  dull  table  starts — 

It  lends  a  spur  to  death. 

No !  by  the  hallowed  rights  we  wrung 

In  years  of  blood  from  Britain's  hand — 
No  !  by  the  stars — heaven's  cressets — hung 

In  the  blue  dome  that  spans  our  land, 
We  will  not  yield  to  Yankee  drill — 

We  scorn  and  hate  its  idiot  ban — 
With  force  of  intellect  and  will, 

We  claim  the  rights  of  man. 

The  right  to  hope,  the  right  to  pray, 

The  right  of  conscience  and  of  rest, 
The  right  to  choose  whatever  way, 

Unhurting  others,  suits  us  best. 
We  reaffirm,  in  reverent  awe, 

This  heresy  \vhich  Knox  began, 
That  conscience  towers  o'er  human  law — 

That  God  is  more  than  man. 


100  The  Poetical.  Works  of 


AN  OLD  MAXIM  REVERSED. 

"Et  arma  cedunt  togse," 
Said  a  Roman  of  renown  ;         * 

' '  When  the  din  of  war  is  over, 
Arms  yield  unto  the  gown." 

But  this  motto  Jeff  reverses  ; 

For,  arrayed  in  female  charms, 
When  the  din  of  war  is  over, 

In  his  gown  he  yields  to  arms. 


THE  ISLANDS  THAT  AWAIT  US. 

Come,  brothers,  fill !     To-night  we  will 

Give  joy  its  longest  tether ; 
Take  hands  around — let  music  sound — 

We're  exiles  here  together. 
For  fatherland  we  draw  the  brand — 

We  failed,  but  do  not  falter ; 
Some  other  day  again  we  may 
Fling  fire  on  Freedom's  altar. 

The  toast  to-night  is  one  of  light, 
Let's  drink  ere  time  belate  us ; 
Come,  brim  the  glass,  and  let  it  pass — 
"The  islands  that  await  us!" 

There's  Cuba  lies  in  sunniest  skies, 

By  Spanish  thraldom  trampled, 
Her'treasure  spent,  and  blood  besprent, 

Her  wrongs  are  unexampled  ; 
But  exiled  sons  with  Yankee  guns 

Can  make  the  tyrants  vanish, 
For  once  we'll  teach  these  grandees  each 
The  way  to  "  walk  it  Spanish  !" 

The  one  Lone  Star  shall  not  be  far 

From  our  unsullied  cluster, 
The  Southern  queen  shall  yet  be  seen 
Arrayed  in  Northern  lustre. 

There's  Ireland,  too — 'tis  vain  to  rue 

The  doom  imprinted  on  her ; 
Some  day  we'll  make,  or  we  mistake, 

That  very  curse  her  honor. 


Charles  Graham  Halpinc.  101 


The  green  shall  spread  above  the  red 

When  Saxon  blood  is  under, 

And  old  John  Bull,  at  Liverpool, 

Be  waked  by  Yankee  thunder. 

The  Eastern  queen  in  starry  sheen 

With  her  of  the  Antilles, 
The  Yankees'  banner  floating  high 
O'er  shamrocks  and  o'er  lilies. 

Then,  brethren,  fill — pledge  heart  and  will — 

Our  cause  we'll  try  and  gain,  too, 
The  exile's  name  shall  reach  a  fame 

No  king's  could  e'er  attain  to. 
In  France  at  first  was  freedom  nursed, 

But  there,  so  wild  and  skittish, 
She  fell  a  prey  one  luckless  day 
To  Spaniards  and  the  British  ; 

But  here  with  growth  surpassing  both, 

Majestic  in  her  status, 
And  to  her  sod,  so  help  us  God ! 
We'll  bring  the  "isles  that  wait  us." 


FOND  AND  FOOLISH. 

My  Lydia,  do  you  never  miss, 

Since  grown  of  late  so  prim  and  mulish, 
The  drive,  the  dinner,  and  the  bliss 

Of  being  very  fond  and  foolish  ? 
The  game  we  played  was  one  of  cost — 

Good  cause,  no  doubt,  for  your  retreating ; 
But,  ah  !  the  joys  forever  lost — 

The  dear,  wild,  passionate  thrills  of  meeting ! 

I  always  went  an  hour  too  soon — 

The  clocks  were  wrong,  my  head  was  dizzy ; 
Your  whispered  words,  "The  square  at  noon" — 

Each  object  kept  my  fancy  busy. 
That  mantle — yes,  it  is  her  own  ; 

I  run — oh,  pooh  !  my  eyes  deceive  me ; 
That  bonnet — it  is  hers  alone ; 

Not  hers !  good  heavens !  my  senses  leave  me. 

The  air  grew  dense,  my  pulse  was  high, 
I  counted  steps  or  plucked  at  brambles ; 

The  exulting  fountain  seemed  to  cry, 

"No  more  shall  Lydia  share  your  rambles." 


102  The  Poetical  Works  of 


A  thousand  shooting  hints  of  fear 
Suggest — but  no,  they  can't  discover ; 

And  yet,  past  noon,  and  she  not  here — 
Was  ever  such  unhappy  lover  ? 

This  surely  is  her  step,  her  height, 

The  same  white  Cashmere  round  her  flowing : 
She  nears — ah!  lovelier  to  my  sight 

Than  Venus  with  her  locks  out-blowing. 
I  fly  to  meet  her  at  the  gates — 

"  Welcome,  and  welcome  beyond  measure ; 
Our  carriage  at  the  corner  waits, 

And  now  for  five  dear  hours  of  pleasure." 

The  fields  were  green,  the  flowers  were  sweet ; 

Each  rose — you  gave  a  kiss  to  win  it, 
And  said,  "  Our  cottage  was  as  neat 

As  any  nest  of  any  linnet ;" 
The  silver  tray — a  flask  of  wine, 

Then,  all  too  soon,  your  visit  over, 
And  back  to  town,  your  hand  in  mine, 

Again  you  parted  from  your  lover. 

These  pleasures  do  you  never  miss, 

My  Lydia,  now  so  prim  and  mulish, 
The  drive,  the  dinner,  and  the  bliss 

Of  being  very  fond  and  foolish  ? 
The  game  we  played  was  one  of  cost — 

Good  cause,  no  doubt,  for  your  retreating ; 
But,  ah  !  the  bliss  forever  lost — 

The  dear,  wild,  passionate  joys  of  meeting. 


A  HYMN  TO  THE  TYPES. 

Oh  silent  myriad  army,  whose  true  metal 

Ne'er  flinched  nor  blenched  before  the  despot  Wrong ! 
Ye  brethren,  linked  in  an  immortal  battle 

With  time-grown  Falsehoods,  tyrannous  and  strong ! 
Fragments  of  strength  and  beauty  lying  idle, 

Each  in  its  place,  until  the  appointed  day  ; 
Then,  swift  as  wheels  the  squadron  to  the  bridle, 

Ye  spring  into  the  long,  compact  array. 

Obedient,  self-contained,  and  self-contented, 
Like  veteran  warriors  in  the  mingled  broil, 

Each  giving  help  where  just  his  help  is  wanted, 
Nor  seeking  more  than  his  due  share  of  toil ; 


Charles  Graham  Halpine.  103 


Striving  not,  vainly,  each  to  be  a  leader, 

Your  capitals  are  captains  of  the  file, 
The  crown  you  aim  at,  to  inform  the  reader, 

And  help  old  Truth  on  for  another  mile. 

What  wondrous  dreams  of  beauty  may  be  flying 

Unwinged,  unuttered,  through  your  silent  mass ! 
Even  as  a  prism,  in  some  deep  grotto  lying, 

Until  the  informing  soul  of  Genius  pass, 
Filling  the  cavern  with  a  light  as  tender 

As  that  which  breaks  from  Love's  half  downcast  eyes  ; 
Then  the  cold  gem  awakes  to  rainbow  splendor, 

Where,  couched  in  moss,  beside  the  fount  it  lies. 

Oh  what  a  burst  of  glory  when  ye  mingle 

Your  bloodless  hands  in  the  support  of  truth — 
When  to  your  banded  spell  the  pulses  Jingle 

Of  tottering  age  and  fiery-visioned  youth ! 
What  power  and  strength  when  ye  stand  up  united 

Beneath  the  master-spirits'  guiding  sway ; 
A  thousand  lamps  at  one  lone  star  lighted, 

Turning  the  night  of  error  into  day. 

Ye  are  the  messengers,  all  earth  pervading, 

Who  speak  of  comfort  and  communion  still — 
Planks  of  a  mighty  ship,  whose  precious  lading 

Is  man's  just  reason  and  his  heart's  fond  will — 
Launched  on  the  stream  of  time,  our  thoughts  are  drifted 

Far,  far  adown  our  children-peopled  shore, 
And  the  gay  pennon  of  our  hope  is  lifted 

When  him  it  cheered  through  life  it  cheers  no  more. 

Unmarshaled  army !  earth  is  still  a  wonder — 

A  bright  God's  wonder,  all  too  little  known  ; 
Star-eyes  above  us  and  the  green  sod  under, 

Oceans  of  beauty  girdling  every  zone  ; 
And  man  himself,  whose  deep  heart  throbs  forever 

With  passionate  longings,  and  the  fierce  unrest 
Of  hopes  that  struggle  in  a  vain  endeavor 

To  hear  themselves  by  other  lips  confess'd. 

Ye  are  the  mightier  tongues  we  have  invented 

To  bear  our  utterance  ever  and  allwhere ; 
Our  hearts  into  a  thousand  hearts  transplanted, 

A  multiplied  existence  ye  confer. 
Falsehood,  with  bloodshot  eyes,  awoke  from  slumber, 

And  glared  in  baleful  terror  on  your  birth  ; 
Meek-fronted  Truth  enrolled  you  in  her  number, 

And  cried,  "I  am  not  without  swords  on  earth!'' 


104:  The  Poetical  Works  of 


Ye  are  true  types  of  men.     When  disunited, 

The  world  has  nothing  feebler  or  more  vain  ; 
But  when  one  animating  thought  has  lighted 

The  dim  recesses  of  each  heart  and  brain, 
The  mass  rolls  onward  with  a  steady  motion, 

Warned  by  your  beacon  from  the  rock  of  Death, 
The  breath  of  Knowledge  sweeps  the  stagnant  ocean, 

And  men  rise  up  like  billows  at  its  breath. 

Ye  are  the  swords  of  Truth — the  only  weapon 

That  Truth  should  wield  in  this  protracted  war ; 
Ye  are  the  rocks  of  Knowledge  that  we  step  on, 

In  thought's  bright  firmament,  from  star  to  star ! 
I  see  an  angel  winged  in  every  letter, 

Even  as  man's  soul  is  hid  within  his  clay : 
I  see  a  prisoner  with  his  broken  fetter 

Emerging  out  of  darkness  into  day. 

Unspeakable  ye  are !    We  have  created 

A  new  existence  than  our  own  more  firm ; 
Our  life  and  hopes  into  your  life  translated, 

Enjoy  a  being  that  shall  know  no  term. 
The  plowman's  frolic  song  still  kindles  gladness 

Within  the  heart,  though  care  has  gnavvn  its  core, 
And  bright  eyes  weep  at  his  recorded  sadness 

Who  sleeps  where  pride  and  envy  sting  no  more. 

Even  as  the  marble  block  contains  all  beauty 

Enshrined  in  darkness  and  the  outward  husk, 
Which  the  warm  sculptor,  with  love-prompted  duty, 

Shall  make  to  shine,  through  darkness  and  through  dusk, 
Into  the  day  of  loveliness,  ye  treasure 

All  forms  of  thought  and  song  in  your' mute  sphere  ; 
Oar  pen  the  chisel,  and  our  rhyme  the  measure 

By  which  we  make  the  inborn  god  appear. 

Would  that  my  heart  were  wider-tongued  and  deeper, 

Nor  moved  involved  in  cares  of  meaner  place, 
Then  would  I  mow  down,  like  a  sturdy  reaper. 

The  crop  of  thought  that  rises  from  the  ''  case." 
Flowers  of  bright  songs,  and  fruit  of  mellow  reason, 

And  many  a  peeping  bud  of  infant  Truth, 
]\ly  soul  should  garner  in  its  summer  season, 

And  steep  in  dews  of  a  perpetual  youth. 

But  ah !  mute  types,  are  ye  not  all  too  often 
Constrained  to  serve  at  some  unsolaced  toil — 

To  harden  hearts  that  ye  would  love  to  soften, 
And  help  to  swell  where  ye  would  still  the  broil  ^ 


Charles  Graham  Halpine.  105 


Even  so  with  me !     My  dreams  of  song  are  hurried 
Like  moon-ray  flashes  through  the  drifting  storm, 

And  all  that  God  made  noble  in  me  buried 
In  wants  I  share  in  common  with  the  worm. 


OUR  CZAR  AND  THE  SULTAN. 

A   LYEIC   OP  "  CIVILIZATION." 

Why  should  we  love  the  heathen  Turk, 
And  hate  the  Christian  czar, 

While  Russia  is  in  wealth  and  work 
,  "  More  civilized"  by  far  ? 

Her  banner  bears  the  Holy  Cross 
Wherewith  our  creed  is  signed, 

While  Turkey's  pachas  only  toss 
Their  horse-tails  to  the  wind. 

Why  hate  the  czar,  and  pray  for  him 

Whose  grim  seraglio  walls 
Hold  beauties  that  are  growing  dim, 

His  concubines  and  thralls  ? 
Why  hate  the  czar,  and  wish  success 

To  one  who  dares  to  libel 
Our  telegraph  and  printing-press, 

Our  cotton  goods  and  Bible  ? 

The  czar  is  ' '  civilized, "  of  course — 

He  writes  it  on  his  banner — 
A  Christian  praying  till  he's  hoarse 

In  the  devoutest  manner ; 
One  wife  alone  he  has  to  kiss, 

As  in  church  members  seemly, 
And  in  his  walk  of  life  he  is 

' '  Respectable — extremely. " 

The  sultan  hath  a  stud  of  wives, 

And  sultans  have,  they  tell  us, 
An  awkward  trick  of  taking  lives 

From  all  obnoxious  fellows. 
Their  headlong  passions  will  not  brook 

To  mingle  farce  with  fury, 
And  wring  from  death  the  killing  joke 

Of  "  murder  done  by  jury." 

The  "march  of  intellect"  is  quite 
A  march  beyond  their- drilling; 

They  never  made  a  "proselyte" 
By  one  judicious  shilling; 

E  2 


106  The  Poetical  Works  of 


Deficient  much  in  legal  skill 
And  "organized  starvation," 

They  never  mixed  a  patent  pill 
For  Turkish  "melioration." 

In  fact,  we  say,  with  deep  regret, 

But  truth  must  be  our  sure  hope, 
The  sultan  is  some  ages  yet 

Behind  the  kings  of  Europe ; 
He  has  not  got  the  royal  blood 

Which  festers  so  divinely 
In  men  not  made  of  common  mud, 

But  porcelain,  painted  finely. 

He  has  not  got  the  Russian  knout . 

Wherewith  the  nuns  were  beaten, 
Nor  Austria's  axe — grown  fat,  no  doubt, 

On  all  the  flesh  it  has  eaten  ; 
No  guilt-extracting  guillotine, 

As  France  has  got  to  cure  hers ; 
But,  worst  of  all,  and  deadliest  sin, 

He  has  no  "British  jurors." 

He  thinks  kings  should,  against  all  taste, 

Have  nothing  underhand  meant, 
Whereas  all  know  the  crown  is  placed 

Above  the  tenth  commandment ; 
For  we  believe  that  monarchs  are 

Exempt  from  keeping  promise, 
Especially  the  queen  and  czar — 

God  keep  their  armies  from  us. 

Then  why,  we  ask — what  mysteries  lurk 

That  we  are  so  excited, 
While  burglar  Nick  and  goodman  Turk 

Are  getting  matters  righted  ? 
A  friend  suggests  some  twaddling  cant 

Of  "justice  and  humanity!" 
Such,  trifles  ought  not,  and  they  sha'n't, 

Impede  our  Christianity. 

We  mean  to  save  the  Turkish  souls 

By  cleaving  skulls  asunder, 
Destroy  them  as  we  did  the  Poles, 

And  profit  by  the  plunder ; 
We  mean  to  give  them  Gospel  light 

By  piercing  lights  and  livers, 
When  dead  and  at  the  judgment  seat 

They'll  then  be  "  true  believers." 


Charles  Graham  Halpine.  107 


But  if,  with  merely  human  hearts, 

We  ask,  " How  goes  the  war?" 
One  hoarse-tongued  execration  starts 

Against  the  butcher  c/ar ; 
There  reeks  a  cloud  from  Poland's  sod 

That  takes  a  giant  form, 
A  mangled  though  immortal  god, 

Much  wasted,  but  yet  warm. 

And  from  the  plains  of  Hungary 

Another  cloud  ascends— 
Heaven !  what  a  fury-frenzied  eye 

Upon  the  North  it  bends ! 
A  woman  form — a  Juno  shape — 

Queen  mother  of  the  gods — 
A  woman !  but  her  shoulders  drip, 

Plowed  red  with  Russian  rods. 

Lo !  watch  them — watch  them  evermore 

Until  the  rite  be  done ; 
High  up  in  air  their  lips  converge — 

That  kiss  hath  made  them  one. 
From  that  embrace  they  quickly  turn, 

Their  cloud-hands  pointing  north, 
And  in  their  eyes  the  lightnings  burn 

Which  soon  shall  thunder  forth. 

God  speed  the  union,  sealed  in  blood, 

Of  Freedom  and  Despair ! 
God  speed  the  cause  of  human  right 

Whenever  and  where'er ! 
God  speed  the  Turk !  God  speed  the  Pole ! 

God  speed  who'er  will  fight 
With  sword  and  word,  heart,  brain,  and  hand, 

For  man's  eternal  right. 


ROMANCE  AND  ECHO. 

It  rains — it  rains — the  slimy  street 
Is  silent,  though  a  hundred  feet 
In  eager  hurry  homeward  beat — 

(Coz  why?  they  all  wear  rubbers.) 
We  hurry  homeward,  there  to  meet 
The  tender  ones,  who  long  to  greet 
Papa  and  husband — oh !  'tis  sweet ! 

(Wife  scolds,  and  baby  blubbers.) 


108  The  Poetical  Works  of 


The  skies  have  all  their  clouds  amassed, 
But  sunshine  waits  us,  and  will  last 
When  we  into  our  homes  have  passed. 

(I  wouldn't  like  to  risk  it !) 
No  rain-tears  there,  no  cutting  blast 
Of  angry  words  ;  the  hours  as  fast 
As  moments  fly ;  we  find  at  last — 

(Weak  tea  and  leathern  biscuit.) 

What  tongue  describe,  what  pen  portray 
The  transports  which,  at  close  of  day, 
The  working  head  and  hand  repay?* 

(Due  bills,  sour  looks,  and  twaddle !) 

0  Seraphina !  soon  I  pray, 

With  thee  to  bless  my  onward  way, 
Our  home,  though  humble,  shall  be  gay — 
(There  was  a  man  called  "Caudle !") 

1  do  not  smoke,  was  never  '; tight," 
And,  while  your  beauties  charm  my  sight, 
I'll  find  the  marriage  burden  light — 

(As  soldiers  find  their  knapsacks !) 
And  home  returning  night  by  night, 
Your  eyes,  the  hearth,  and  all  things  bright, 
Oh,  will  you  not  my  toils  requite  ? 

(With  pickled  pork  and  flapjacks ! ) 


THE  WELL-DRESSED  MAN. 

My  poor  old  coat,  my  holy  coat, 

But  not  like  that  of  Treves, 
With  pain  ineffable  I  note 

Your  frayed  and  wasted  sleeves. 
Time  was,  my  coat,  that  I  in  you 

Right  daintily  began 
To  take  of  life  a  jovial  view — 

I  was  a  well-dressed  man. 

My  laundress  called,  her  pay  required, 

I  paid — my  morning  call ; 
Attired  in  thee,  till  fairly  tired, 

I  danced  at  rout  and  ball ; 
The  ladies  smiled,  and,  as  I  passed, 

The  pleasing  whisper  ran, 
"  That's  Mister  Miles,  he's  rather  fast, 

But  such  a  well-dressed  man  !" 


Charles  Graham  Halpinc.  109 


My  tailor's  bill  was  much  behind, 

And  I  for  board  was  bored, 
But  still  the  landlady  was  kind, 

And  still  mein  Schneider  scored  ; 
"  He  feared  to  press,  but  could  I  pay  ?" 

'Twas  thus  the  rogue  began  ; 
She  "really  could  not  turn  away 

So  sweetly  dressed' a  man." 

I  drove  abroad  and  drank  my  wine, 

Match-making  mothers  sought  me. 
And  many  a  maiden  fair  and  fine 

Flushed  red  to  think  she'd  caught  me. 
With  tongue  and  pen  I  played  my  part, 

To  dazzle  was  my  plan  ; 
None  e'er  could  deem  an  aching  heart 

In  such  a  well-dressed  man. 

But  ah !  it  is  the  utmost  pound 

That  kills  the  patient  camel, 
And  to  my  terror  soon  I  found 

My  debts  I  could  not  trammel. 
My  tailor's  "  tick"  grew  short,  and  quick 

A  hundred  duns  began  ; 
One  suit  of  clothes  had  saved  all  suits 

Against  the  well-dressed  man. 

I'm  beggared  now,  but  you'll  allow 

It  was  a  sad  temptation 
Obscure  to  live,  while  clothes  can  give 

Respect  and  social  station. 
It  could  not  last,  my  folly's  past, 

I've  learned  a  wiser  plan— 
By  hand  and  brain  I'll  be  again 

A  (paid  for)  well-dressed  man. 


SPECIAL  ORDERS,  A.,  No.  I.16 

Headquarters  Department  of  the  South,) 
Hilton  Head,  S.C.,  March  25, 1863.      f 

With  her  charming  looks 

And  all  her  graces, 
Miss  Mary  Brooks, 

Whose  lovely  face  is 

The  sweetest  thing  we  have  seen  down  here 
On  these  desolate  islands  for  more  than  a  vear, 


110  The  Poetical  Works  of 


Is  hereby  appointed  an  extra  aid 

On  the  staff  of  the  general  commanding, 
With  a  captain  of  cavalry's  strap  and  grade, 
And  with  this  most  definite  understanding — 
That  Captain  Mary, 
Gay  and  airy, 
At  nine  each  day,  until  further  orders, 

To  Colonel  Halpine  shall  report 
For  special  duty  at  these  headquarters ; 
And  Captain  Mary 
(Bless  the  fairy !) 

Shall  hold  herself,  upon  all  occasions, 
Prepared  to  ride 
At  the  adjutant's  side, 
And  give  him  of  flirting  his  regular  rations  ; 
And  she  sha'n't  vamoose 
With  the  younglings  loose 
Of  the  junior  staff,  such  as  Hay  and  Skinner, 
But,  galloping  around,  she  shall  sing 
Like  an  everlasting  lark  on  the  wing ; 
And  she  sha'n't  keep  the  adjutant  late  for  dinner. 

The  chief  quartermaster  of  department 

Will  give  Captain  Mary  a  riding  garment — 

A  long,  rich  skirt  of  a  comely  hue — 

Shot  silk,  with  just  a  suspicion  of  blue — 

A  gipsy  hat,  with  an  ostrich  feather, 

A  veil  to  protect  her  against  the  weather, 

And  delicate  gauntlets  of  pale  buff  leather ; 

Her  saddle  with  silver  shall  all  be  studded, 

And  her  pony — a  sorrel— it  shall  be  blooded  ; 

Its  shoes  shall  be  silver,  its  bridle  all  ringing 

With  bells  that  shall  harmonize  well  with  her  singing ; 

And  thus  Captain  Mary, 

Gay,  festive,  and  airy, 

Each  morning  shall  ride 

At  the  adjutant's  side, 
And  hold  herself  ready,  on  all  fit  occasions, 
To  give  him  of  flirting  his  full  army  rations. 

By  command  of 

MAJOR  GENERAL  D.  HUNTER. 

ED.  W.  SMITH,  Assist.  Adjt.  General. 

Official  copy : 

CHAS.  G.  HALPINE,  Lieut.  Col.  and  Assist.  Adjt.  General  Tenth 
Army  Corps  and  Dept.  of  the  South. 


Charles  Graham  Halpine.  Ill 


ROOSE  VELTI  AN  A. l  7 

OUB  BOY  BOB. 

He  angles  in  all  sorts  of  ways 

For  fish  and  lobby  operators, 
Now  hooking  speckled  trout  he  strays, 

Now  spearing  railroad  corporators ; 
At  times  with  worms  he  baits  his  hook, 

Or  trolls  along  with  whirling  gudgeons, 
Then  gives  the  wondering  world  a  look 

At  Brennan,  Blunt,  and  such  curmudgeons. 

His  rod  hath  slain  full  many  a  carp, 

His  line  hath  played  full  many  a  salmon, 
And,  though  our  aldermen  are  sharp, 

They  can't  bluff  him  with  any  gammon. 
His  art  the  scaly  prey  commands, 

His  landing-net  they  enter  gayly, 
And  then,  backed  up  by  Mr.  Sands, 

He  hunts  for  politicians  scaly. 

His  specs  are  bright,  his  eyes  are  blue, 

He  knows  all  kinds  of  flies  and  hackles, 
He  knows  the  Hackley  contract  too, 

And  each  new  scheme  of  plunder  tackles ; 
To  Boole  a  blight,  and — bitterer  yet — 

The  Tammany  folk  would  like  to  flay  him ; 
All's  fish  that  comes  within  his  net, 

And  when  they're  hooked  he  likes  to  play  'em. 

His  barb  hath  stuck  in  Southern  "drums," 

He  knows  the  pulling  force  of  turbot, 
And  each  new  civic  fraud  that  comes, 

It  gives  him  pleasure  to  disturb  it ; 
The  ravenous  pikes  he  doth  pursue, 

Taking,  when  baked,  on  plates  their  measure ; 
And  the  still  more  rapacious  crew 

Of  councilmen  have  felt  his  pressure. 

He  makes  the  deadly  fox-fly  swing 

On  silken  line  in  circles  o'er  us, 
Or  sings — as  only  he  can  sing — 

Leading  the  new  reforming  chorus ! 
The  triple  brass  of  Blunt  gives  way 

Before  his  pen's  two-hundred-pounder ; 
Then,  rocking  in  some  quiet  bay, 

He  picks  up  cod,  bass,  bream,  and  flounder. 


112  The  Poetical  Works  of 


The  portly  and  white-chokered  throng 

Opposed  to  Brennan  and  such  cattle, 
For  once,  we  say,  have  not  gone  wrong 

In  choosing  him  to  fight  their  battle  ; 
All  scaly  fish  with  baited  bribes 

He  oft  hath  struck  with  barbed  incisions, 
And  of  all  scaly,  slimy  tribes, 

The  slimiest  are  the  politicians. 


RIME  OF  YE  SEEDIE  PRINTEERE  MAN. 

It  is  a  seedie  printeere  man, 
And  he  stoppeth  one  of  three— 

"By  thy  unshorn  beard  and  fevered  eye, 
Now  wherefore  stopp'st  thou  me  ? 

"  For  Jullien's  band  doth  play  to-night, 

And  I  must  hence  away ; 
The  fiddles  they  are  deftly  tuned — 

Dost  hear  Herr  Koenig  play  ?" 

He  holds  him  with  his  grimy  hand — 

"  More  copy"  he  doth  cry ; 
"Hold  off!  thou  grizzly  printeere  man," 

The  victim  makes  reply. 

He  holds  him  with  his  fevered  eye — 

' '  More  copy !  it  must  come ; 
My  printeeres  they  are  standing  still" — 

The  editeere  is  dumb. 

The  editeere  he  sat  him  down, 

His  tears  they  quickly  ran, 
While  thus  spake  in  the  seedie  one, 

The  red-eyed  printeere  man  : 

' '  The  papeeres  must  to-morrow  out, 

To-morrow  be  on  hand, 
And  you  are  our  chief  editeere — 

More  copy  we  demand. 

"The  Times  comes  out  at  early  dawn, 

The  Tribune  follows  soon, 
The  Evening  Post,  and  the  Express, 

They  will  be  out  by  noon." 
The  editeere  let  fall  a  tear 

As  he  heard  the  loud  bassoon. 


Charles  Graham  Halpine.  113 


Lo !  Jullien  to  the  dai's  mounts — 

A  bearded  wight  is  he ; 
With  bugle-blow  before  him  go 

The  merrie  minstrelsy. 

But  still  the  steadfast  printeere  man 

"More  copy"  cries  aloud, 
And  ye  broken-hearted  editeere 

Withdraws  him  from  the  crowd. 

"  God  save  thee,  wretched  editeere ! 

What '  devils'  plague  thee  thus  ?" 
He  ground  an  answer  through  his  teeth — 

It  sounded  like  a  cuss. 

All  night  that  wretched  editeere 

Before  his  desk  did  sit ; 
In  vain  for  him  had  Mr.  Brough 

A  free  admission  writ. 

"  More  copy"  still  the  "  devils"  cry — 
He  can  not  choose  but  make"  it ;" 

And  when  his  weary  task  is  done, 
He  bids  the  "  devil"  take  it. 

Next  morning,  when  the  sheet  appeared. 

The  public  laughed  amain  ; 
They  little  thought  the  little  jokes 

Had  cost  such  mickle  pain. 

He  wrote  like  one  that  had- been  dunned 

For  copy,  all  forlorn  ; 
A  less  harmonious  Democrat 

He  rose  the  morrow  morn. 


THE  RHYMER'S  RITUAL. 

Of  all  the  kinds  of  snobbish  rhyme 
That  fail  to  please  or  tickle  us, 
The  worst  and  most  ridiculous 
Is  when  young  bards  be-tickle  us 

Whith  "tears"  they  shed  "in  early  time.'' 

The  poet's  task,  when  understood, 
Is  not  with  pain  to  fetter  us, 
And  dolefully  be-letter  us  ; 
It  is  to  touch  and  better  us 

With  glintings  of  a  gentler  mood. 
S 


114  The  Poetical  Works  of 


What  cares  a  steam-electric  age 
For  narratives  Byronical  ? 
It  rather  loves  to  chronicle 
Some  witty  thing  laconical, 

Flung  lightly  down  upon  the  page. 

We  all  have  griefs  enough  to  spare 
Without  a  man  inditing  'em, 
.  And  metrically  writing  'em  ; 
The  wiser  plan  is  slighting  'em — 

A  hearty  laugh  can  conquer  care. 

A  grain  of  Burns  is  worth  a  mint 
Of  Byron's  dolorosity ; 
Tom  Hood's  immense  jocosity 
Beats  Milton's  ponderosity — 

True  wit  has  always  wisdom  in't. 

In  youth  each  inexperienced  fool 
Adores  the  hyperbolical, 
The  Sue-Duinas-Sand-Gaulical 
Creations  melancholical — 

The  writings  of  the  "thrilling  school. 

'Tis  strange  that  while  of  real  grief 
We  all  have  such  immensities, 
Men  still  should  have  propensities 
For  reading  wild  intensities 

Of  agonies  beyond  belief. 

For  me,  I  will  not  read  the  stuff 
Of  German  tales — too  deep  a  bit, 
That  will  not  let  me  sleep  a  bit ; 
If  e'er  we  want  to  weep  a  bit, 

Our  lives  are  tragical  enough. 

I'd  rather  think  the  lines  I  penned 
Made  one  hour  pass  more  cheerily, 
More  lightly  and  less  wearily, 
Than  know  that  readers  drearily 

Went  blubbering  .on  from  end  to  end. 


MINNIE,  MY  DOLL -WIFE. 

She  is  fair  as  a  peach, 
She  is  light  as  a  feather, 

And  more  tuneful  her  speech 
Than  all  song-birds  together ; 


Charles  Graham  Halpine.  115 


Her  face  is  delicious, 

Bright,  modest,  and  clear, 

And  she  fills  all  the  wishes 
Of  eye,  heart,  and  ear. 

O'er  her  brow,  in  the  wind, 

Little  curls  toss  and  clamber, 
While  the  thick  hair  behind 

Is  of  chestnut  with  amber ; 
Her  dark  eyes  are  seen 

Ever  kindling  or  dimming, 
As  a  falcon's  now  keen, 

Now  in  tenderness  swimming. 

Then  her  lips — ah !  mon  Dieu ! 

Curving,  crimson,  and  scented, 
As  if  made  with  a  view 

But  to  drive  us  demented. 
Little  chin,  rosy  cheek, 

Each  hath  got  its  own  dimple, 
And  her  whole  features  speak 

A  soul  arch  and  yet  simple. 

How  slender  her  throat, 

And  how  white  beyond  telling  ! 
While  her  bust  you  may  note 

Into  womanhood  swelling — 
Like  a  bud,  newly  graced 

As  the  sun-rays  unfold  it ; 
While  so  small  is  her  waist, 

In  spanned  hands  you  may  hold  it. 

In  her  little  doll's  boot — 

At  least  such  is  my  notion — 
Her  superb  Arab  foot 

Seems  a  poem  of  motion ; 
Like  a  deer  in  her  pace, 

And  in  beauty  abounding, 
Every  motion  a  grace, 

As  if  music  were  sounding. 

My  little  doll-wife, 

Had  we. two  come  together 
When  the  year  of  my  life 

Was  in  early  spring  weather. 
Not  a  doll-wife  wert  thou, 

But  a  wife  warm  and  glowing, 
To  whose  young  heart,  even  how, 

My  soul's  currents  are  flowing. 


116  The  Poetical  Works  of 


To  a  little  doll's  cot, 

Set  in  flowers,  I  would  sue  you — 
Even  the  sunlight  should  not 

Too  unguardedly  woo  you ; 
There,  with  ribbons  and  toys, 

Roses,  jewels,  and  dances, 
I  would  ask  for  no  joys 

But  to  bask  in  your  glances. 

So,  when  weary  my  life — 

Heart  and  brain,  ear  and  vision — 
Of  the  long,  paltry  strife 

Which  we  think  is  ambition, 
In  my  little  doll's  cot 

And  her  arms  I  might  hide  me. 
And,  while  brightening  her  lot, 

Find  the  peace  else  denied  me. 


TO  THE  CHIEF  JUSTICE:  FROM  MILES  O'REILLY. IS 

"  Incedimus  per  ignes,  euppositos  cineri  doloso." 

Guardian  of  liberty  and  right, 
Of  law  and  justice  in  the  land, 
Hold  the  scales  firm  with  even  hand  ; 
For  thou  must  either  greatly  stand, 
Calm  as  a  Fate,  with  purpose  grand, 

Or  sink  beyond  all  reach  of  light. 

Down  to  the  deep  foundation-stones 
On  which  our  country's  pillars  rest, 
Propping  the  roof  once  brightly  pressed 
By  stars — beneath  which  many  a  guest 
Came  in  to  share  the  banquet  bless'd 

Of  liberty — our  temple  groans. 

Groans  in  this  earthquake's  helpless  loss 

(The  war  was  nothing,  and  is  past)  ; 

But  the  temple  groans  with  tremors  vast, 

Seeing  the  sacred  things,  amassed 

By  our  great  fathers,  rudely  cast 
Down  to  the  dust  as  worthless  dross. 

Tis  thine  to  bid  the  storm  be  o'er — 
A  right  almost  too  great  for  speech — 
'Tis  thine  the  sacred  vessels  each 
To  lift  again ;  'tis  thine  to  teach 
Lessorts  of  love  that  yet  may  reach 

And  knit  all  sections  as  of  yore. 


CJiarles  Graham  Halpine.  117 


High  towering  o'er  the  vulgar  train, 
By  rage  and  greed  of  gain  debased, 
Thy  lines  in  loftier  planes  are  placed  ; 
And  with  thy  heart  to  justice  braced, 
Faction  may  all  her  thunders  waste 

Against  thy  calm  decrees  in  vain. 

It  is  no  common  thing  to  sit,  « 

Clothed  as  thou  art  with  power  so  great, 
Balancing  points  of  subtlest  weight 
Between  the  ruler  of  a  state 
And  a  cabal's  unscrupling  hate : 

Thy  place  in  history  here  is  writ. 

I  know  thee  well :  thy  life's  proud  lot, 
A  struggle  vehement  and  long, 
With  soundest  heart  and  judgment  strong. 
Against  whate'er  to  thee  seemed  wrong : 
Now  raised  by  virtue  o'er  the  throng, 

Thy  record  must  receive  no  blot 

Hold  the  scales  even ;  firmly  stand 
In  thy  great  office,  guarding  law ; 
Round  thee  thy  sacred  ermine  draw ; 

•  Pluck  Justice  from  Hate's  ravening  maw  ; 
And,  grandest  sight  the  world  e'er  saw, 

Let  one  man's  firm  soul  save  the  land. 


TO  FENTON.19 

AN  EARNEST  OBY  AND  PEAYEE  FOE  CUE  ENDANGERED  TAX  LKVY. 

That  bill,  O  Fenton  !  spare ; 

Let  not  thy  veto  fly ; 
The  child  of  many  a  prayer — 

Say,  would'st  thou  have  it  die  ? 
Brittle  and  bright  as  glass, 
,  It  is  both  "rich  and  rare ;" 
But,  Fenton,  let  it  pass — 

Thy  veto  pray  forbear. 

For  months,  when  short  of  cash, 

We've  dreamed  about  this  bill, 
Hoping— perhaps  'twas  rash — 

That  it  our  fobs  would  fill. 
When  tailors  pressed  us  hard, 

Or  we  for  board  were  bored, 
We  did  all  fears  discard — 

This  bill  would  swell  our  hoard. 


118  The  Poetical  Works  of 


But  now,  in  ghastly  fear, 

We  hear  dark  rumors  fly — 
Forgive  this  foolish  tear, 

But  let  that  bill  go  by. 
Ten  thousand  humble  men 

Depend  on  it  for  bread, 
And  should  it  fail — oh !  then 

Their  woes  be  on  thy  head. 

The  nabobs  of  the  League, 

Their  purses  dense  with  gold, 
Weave  round  thee  an  intrigue 

That  levy  to  withhold ; 
But  think,  ere  flies  the  dart 

Making  that  bill  a  corse, 
How  shrill  through  many  a  heart 

The  barb  its  way  will  force. 

Grant  that  there  are  some  "  steals'" — 

Some*"  big  steals,"  if  you  will — 
Which  Greeley's  pen  reveals 

In  this  unhappy  bill ; 
Yet  think  of  all  the  poor, 

Unpaid-for,  honest  toil, 
And  what  they  must  endure, 

If  you  this  bill  shall  foil. 

Let  thy  assent  be  given — 

Sign,  sign  thy  potent  name, 
And  to  the  gates  of  heaven 

Our  tongues  shall  waft  thy  fame. 
Sign  that  financial  bill, 
No  single  item  touch, 
And,  by  thy  bounteous  will, 

Save  us  from  Famine's  clutch. 

f5ct.  stamp,)       Given  this  1st  day  of  May,  1868,  from  our  royal  seat 
t  canceled. .(  on  the  chains  in  the  City  Hall  Park, 

MILES  O'REILLY, 

Special  Pleader  and  Spokesman  for  the  great  Unpaid 
of  our  City  Government. 


WEBSTER, 

Gone !  and  the  world  may  never  hear  again 
The  grand  old  music  of  thy  wondrous  speech. 

Striking  far  deeper  than  the  mind  can  reach 
Into  the  hearts  and  purposes  of  men. 


Charles  Graham  Halpine.  119 


Gone !  and  the  helm  that  in  thy  Roman  hand 

Drove  the  stout  vessel  through  the  blinding  storm, 

Scarce  to  a  feebler  guidance  will  conform 

When  waves  beat  high,  and  ropes  break  strand  by  strand. 

Gone !  we  are  like  old  men  whose  infant  eyes 

Familiar  grew  with  some  vast  pyramid ; 
Even  as  we  gaze,  earth  yawns,  and  it  is  hid — 

A  long,  wide  desert  mocks  the  empty  skies. 


NOT  A  STAR  FROM  THE  FLAG  SHALL  FADE. 

Air :  "Oh!  a  rare  old  plant  is  the  ivy  green." 

Och !  a  rare  ould  flag  was  the  flag  we  bore, 

'Tvvas  a  bully  ould  flag,  an'  nice ; 
It  had  sthripes  in  plenty,  an'  shtars  galore — 

'Twas  the  broth  of  a  purty  device. 
Faix,  we  carried  it  South,  an'  we  carried  it  far, 

An'  around  it  our  bivouacs  made ; 
An'  we  swore  by  the  shamrock  that  never  a  shtar 

From  its  azure  field  should  fade. 

Ay,  this  was  the  oath,  I  tell  you  thrue, 

That  was  sworn  in  the  sowls  of  our  Boys  in  Blue. 

The  fight  it  grows  thick,  an'  our  boys  they  fall, 

An'  the  shells  like  a  banshee  scream ; 
An'  the  flag — it  is  torn  by  many  a  ball, 

But  to  yield  it  we  never  dhreairi. 
Though  pierced  by  bullets,  yet  still  it  bears 

All  the  shtars  in  its  tatthered  field, 
An'  again  the  brigade,  like  to  one  man  swears, 

"  Not  a  shtar  from  the  flag  we  yield!" 

'Twas  the  deep,  hot  oath,  I  tell  you  thrue, 
That  lay  close  to  the  hearts  of  our  Boys  in  Blue. 

Shure,  the  fight  it  was  won',  afther  many  a  year, 

But  two  thirds  of  the  boys  who  bore 
That  flag  from  their  wives  and  sweethearts  dear 

Returned  to  their  homes  no  more. 
They  died  by  the  bullet — disease  had  power, 

An'  to  death  they  were  rudely  tossed ; 
But  the  thought  came  warm  in  their  dying  hour, 

"  Not  a  shtar  from  the  flag  is  lost !" 

Then  they  said  their  pathers  and  aves  through, 
An',  like  Irishmen,  died— did  our  Boys  in  Blue. 


120  The  Poetical  Works  of 


But  now  they  tell  us  some  shtars  are  gone, 

Torn  out  by  the  rebel  gale  ; 
That  the  shtars  we  fought  for,  the  states  we  won, 

Are  still  out  of  the  Union's  pale. 
May  their  sowls  in  the  dioul's  hot  kitchen  glow 

Who  sing  such  a  lyin'  shtrain ; 
By  the  dead  in  their  graves,  it  shall  not  be  so — 

They  shall  have  what  they  died  to  gain ! 

All  the  shtars  in  our  flag  shall  still  shine  through 
The  grass  growing  soft  o'er  our  Dead  in  Blue ! 


FEMININE  ARITHMETIC. 

LAURA. 

On  me  he  shall  ne'er  put  a  ring, 

So,  mamma,  'tis  in  vain  to  take  trouble, 

For  I  was  but  eighteen  in  spring, 
While  his  age  exactly  is  double. 

MAMMA. 

He  is  but  in  his  thirty-sixth  year, 

Tall,  handsome,  good-natured,  rich,  witty, 

And  should  you  refuse  him,  my  dear, 
May  you  die  an  old  maid  without  pity. 

LAURA. 

His  figure,  I  grant  you,  will  pass, 

And  at  present  he's  young  enough  plenty  ; 
But,  when  I  am  sixty,  alas ! 

Will  not  he  be  a  hundred  and  twenty  ? 


LA  SUISSESSE  AU  BORD  DU  LAC. 

The  flowers  have  breathed  their  sweetest  perfumes  here, 

And  night  approaches  us  with  noiseless  feet ; 
The  lake  is  sparkling,  and  the  air  is  clear — 
The  peace  of  evening  shadows  our  retreat. 

Oh,  dearest  home — oh,  happy,  happy  lot — 

Sweet  home,  in  our  hearts  thou  shalt  never  be  forgot. 

Come,  my  companions,  let  us  dance  and  sing — 

A  lovely  evening  crowns  the  glorious  day — 
Come,  let  us  make  the  mountain  echoes  ring 
With  songs  of  joy  and  many  a  tender  lay. 

Oh,  dearest  home— oh,  happy,  happy  lot — 

Sweet  home,  in  our  hearts  thou  shalt  never  be  forgot. 


Charles  Graham  Halpine.  121 


By  the  moon  shimmering  through  the  silent  woods, 

I  know  my  love  will  not  be  absent  long  ; 
Hark !  from  across  the  bright  lake's  silent  floods 
I  hear  his  voice  re-echo  back  my  song. 

Oh,  dearest  home — oh,  happy,  happy  lot — 

Sweet  home,  in  our  hearts  thou  shalt  never  be  forgot. 


ADIEU  TO  THE  PRINCESS  PICCOLOMINI. 

ON  AN  ACTION  AGAINST  THE  PRINCESS  PICCOLOMINI  FOE  HER  15OARD   HILL. 

The  wonderful  Princess  Piccolomini 
Ought  to  have  paid  for  her  hog  and  hominy ; 
Ought  to  have  paid  for  her  beer  and  brandy,   . 
Mutton,  and  beef,  and  molasses  candy ; 
Either  herself  should  have  paid  for  her  victuals 
(This  shirking  your  board  bill  much  belittles), 
Or  the  dandy  snobs  who  her  favor  prayed  for — 
These  should  have  seen  that  her  grub  was  paid  for. 

Yes,  the  enchanting  Piccolomini 
Should  have  shelled  out  for  her  hog  and  hominy, 
And  never  compelled  Mr.  Hawley  Clapp 
To  pull  and  haul  up  the  fishy  chap, 
Who  was  seized  on  a  writ  "ad  satis  cap," 
Though  'tis  certain  that  he  never  owed  a  rap — 
Nary  a  red  for  the  hog  and  hominy 
Munched  and  crunched  by  the  Piccolomini ; 
Nary  a  cent  for  the  beer  and  brandy, 
Oysters,  and  eggs,  and  molasses  candy, 
Puddings,  and  pies,  and  lobster  salads, 
Gorged  by  our  fat  little  queen  of  ballads ! 

Large  in  her  feet  was  the  Piccolomini, 

Pat  were  her  feet,  and  her  hog  and  hominy ; 

Waddling  around  with  a  lazy  looseness, 

Lavishing  smiles  with  a  rank  profuseness, 

Doing  snobs  out  of  gigs  and  ponies, 

Quizzing  them  next  to  her  bosom  cronies — 

A  very  dear  lady  was  Piccolomini, 

And  dear  to  Clapp  was  her  hog  and  hominy  ; 

Dear  to  the  public  her  dubious  singing, 

And  dear  were  the  bouquets  her  friends  kept  flinging. 

She  looked  like  a  dropsical  female  Jew  sick, 

And  scaly,  indeed,  was  her  scale  of  music. 

One  victim  still  wanders  around  the  Academy, 

Sighing,  "Alas !  all  the  gifts  she  had  of  me." 

F 


122  The  Poetical  Works  of 


IN  PLEASANT  HOURS. 

In  pleasant  hours,  the  merriest  toy 

That  e'er  made  time  roll  lightly — 
A  living,  animated  joy, 

That  flitted  round  us  brightly ; 
We  thought  not  courage  lay  beneath 

Those  lips  of  pouting  coral — 
We  little  guessed  that  beauty's  wreath 

But  hid  the  heroine's  laurel. 

Yet,  in  the  hour  of  peril  tried, 

.    The  gentle  heart  grew  fearless ; 

Her  eye.s  still  beamed  with  hope  and  pride 

When  all  looked  dark  and  cheerless. 
Then  loudly  let  her  praises  ring, 

And  may  her  name  be  legion, 
Who  soared  on  love's  unfaltering  wing 

Through  sorrow's  darkest  region. 


PAREPA  ROSA. 

AS  STING  BY  JTJDGE  JOHN  B.  UKADY — WITH  IMMENSE   EFFECT  1 

Air:  "  The  Groves  of  Blarney." 

Och !  of  song  a  fountain, 
An'  of  charms  a  mountain, 
There's  no  prima-donna 

Can  wid  her  compare ; 
For  she  is  the  sweetest, 
An'  the  most  completest, 
From  her  golden  girdle 

To  her  nut-brown  hair. 
She's  the  gorgeous  sposa 
Of  the  Signor  Rosa, 
An'  she  does  outvalue  him 
By  a  hundred  pounds. 
Sure  her  smile  is  gracious, 
An'  her  bust  is  spacious, 

Like  a  milk-white  reservoir 

f  An',  throth !  that's  what  it  is,  the  darlint— an'  may  God  bless  her 
an'  it  for  the  same !  An'  may  he  look  down  upon  her,  an'  be  good 
to  her !] 

Of  all  silvery  sounds. 


Charles  Graham  Ilalpine.  123 


Hear  her  voice  a  minute ! 
Like  a  lark  or  linnet, 

How  the  warble  bubbles  up 
From  her  purty  throat ; 
An'  now  hear  it  fallin', 
Like  an  echo  callin', 

Flickerin'  gently  downward 

From  some  hills  remote. 
Then  again  it  rises, 
An'  wid  joy  surprises, 
For  her  love  an'  rapture 
Find  in  song  relief; 
An'  it  now  sinks  lowly 
Into  prayer  most  holy, 

Or  now  swells  in  rondeaux 

[Though  I  don't  meself  rightly  know,  upon  me  conscience !  what  sort 
of  a  thing  a  "  rondeau"  is,  whin  it's  at  home] 
Of  melodious  grief. 

When  I  think  o'  dyin', 
An'  me  sperit  flyin' 
To  that  high  Olympus 

Where  good  gossoons  go — 
Where,  their  harps  a-holdin', 
An'  wid  cymbals  golden, 
All  the  proud  immortals 

Into  music  flow — 
Och !  the  future  taskin', 
It  is  then  I'm  askin', 
"  Shall  we  hear  Parepa 

In  that  shinin'  throng  ?" 
For  if  her  sweet  singin' 
Through  all  heaven's  not  ringin', 

Earth  can  whip  the  Nine  Muses 

[Ay,  faix !  an'  a  dozen  or  two  of  them  little  cherubims  and  seraphims 
who  "continually  do  cry,"  as  poor  Father  Mulcahy — God  rest  him! 
— tould  me  long  ago  at  Sunday-school] 

In  the  line  o'  song. 
Philharmonic  Night,  Academy  of  Music. . 


THE  BROKEN  HEART. 

FROM    THE   FEENOH. 

Her  heart  was  broken  ;  day  by  day 
She  wasted  silently  away, 


124  The  Poetical  Works  of 


And  o'er  her  large  dark  eyes  there  grew 
A  film  of  leaden-colored  hue ; 
Her  step  was  languid,  slow,  and  weak, 
A  hectic  fever  flushed  her  cheek, 
Seldom  and  little  did  she  speak. 

And  he  to  whom  her  faith  was  vowed, 
Her  hushand — by  the  world  allowed 
A  kind,  good-natured,  easy  man — 
O'er  all  his  present  conduct  ran 
To  see  if  he  had  given  her  aught 
To  cause  this  apathy  of  thought, 
This  tearful  silence,  sorrow  fraught. 

At  length  she  spake  one  dewy  morn  : 
' '  Adolphe,  you  wonder  why  forlorn 
I  pensive  sit  from  day  to  day, 
And  pine  in  solitude  away  ; 
Dear  husband,  I  will  tell  thee  all : 
My  neighbor,  Madame  D'Argental, 
Has  got — I  have  not — a  new  shawl.  " 


NEW  YORK  IN  A  SNOW-COAT. 

In  Gotham,  though  no  more  it  rained, 
Full  ankle  deep  the  slush  remained, 
Till  all  our  pants,  with  mud  engrained, 
Flapped  round  our  insteps  heavily. 

But  Gotham  saw  another  sight 
When  the  snow  fell  at  dead  of  night, 
Enrobing  noiselessly  in  white 
The  squalor  of  her  scenery. 

For  soon  the  wind  began  to  blow, 
And  drifting  fell  the  virgin  snow, 
'Till,  white  as  Greeley's  coat,  the  row 
Of  streets  diverging  mazily. 

By  dextrous  blacks  and  grooms  arrayed, 
Was  harnessed  every  equine  jade, 
While  bells  a  merry  music  made, 
And  sledges  slipped  on  ringingly. 

Then  wheels  rolled  off  from  every  'bus, 
Then  rose  to  heaven  the  cry  and  "cuss,' 
While  Bowery  boys  enjoyed  the  muss 
Jn  Broadway  raging  fearfully. 


L 


Charles  Graham  Halpinc.  125 


Then  shook  the  street  with  sledges  riven, 
Then  rushed  the  eight  in  tandem  driven, 
While  faster  than  the  bolts  of  heaven 
Flashed  the  snow-ball  artillery. 

Full  many  a  bonnet,  pink  and  blue, 
Full  many  a  nose  of  ditto  hue, 
Changed  color  ,as  the  missiles  flew 
And  hit  them — oh !  so  stingingly. 

But  pleasure  dies  when  keenest  felt, 
And  snow,  when  most  enjoyed,  will  melt, 
And  they  who  ride,  and  they  who  pelt, 
Beneath  the  drift  lie  peacefully. 


THE  TUKQUOIS  BROOCH. 

They  tell  us  of  a  precious  stone 

Which  changes  with  the  wearer, 
And,  moved  by  sympathy  alone, 

Grows  lustreless  or  fairer ; 
Thus,  if  the  loved  one's  bosom  grieve, 

Its  azure  glory  flies, 
But  if  to  joy  that  bosom  heave, 

'Tis  bright  as  summer  skies. 

So,  Mary,  is  my  soul  to  thee, 

By  thee  illumed  or  saddened, 
O'ercast  if  thou  look'st  moodily, 

And  bright  if  thou  art  gladdened ; 
Thou,  like  the  turquois  to  my  pain, 

Unlike  to  my  unrest, 
For,  Mary,  thou  hast  never  ta'en 

My  spirit  to  thy  breast. 


A  PALPABLE  PARODY. 

'Tis  the  last  golden  dollar, 

Left  shining  alone; 
All- its  brilliant  companions 

Are  squandered  and  gone. 
No  coin  of  its  mintage 

Reflects  back  its  hue, 
They  went  in  mint-juleps, 

And  this  will  go  too. 


126  The  Poetical  Works  of 


I'll  not  keep  thee,  thou  lone  one, 

Too  long  in  suspense ; 
Thy  brethren  were  melted, 

And  melt  thou  to  pence. 
I  ask  for  no  quarter, 

I'll  spend  and  not  spare, 
Till  my  poor  empty  pocket 

Lie  centless  and  bare. 

So  soon  may' I  follow 
When  friendships  decay, 

And  from  beggary's  last  dollar 
The  dimes  drop  away. 

When  the  Maine  law  has  passed, 
And  the  groggeries  sink, 

What  use  would  be  dollars 

•    With  nothing  to  drink  ? 


THINE  EYES  OF  BLUE. 

• 

FROM   THE   FRENCH. 

Thine  eyes  of  blue,  the  heaven's  own  hue, 
Thy  soft  eyes  thrill  my  fevered  pulse ; 

The  light  that  lies  within  /hine  eyes 
Hath  blinded  me  to  all  things  else. 

Love  at  a  single  word  may  bloom, 

The  quick  heart  blossoming  fair  and  free ; 

One  glance  may  gild  the  future's  gloom, 
And  now  thy  bright  eyes  shine  on  me. 
Thine  eyes  of  blue,  etc. 

And  canst  thou  ask  me  why  my  cheek, 
Where  thou  art  not,  grows  pale  and  wan  ? 

Why  sadness  that  I  can  not  speak 

Surrounds  my  path  when  thou  art  gone  ? 
Thine  eyes  of  blue,  etc. 

And,  farther,  canst  thou  wish  to  know 

What  change  comes'o'er  me  when  we  meet, 
And  why  my  pallid  brow  will  glow, 
And  why  my  quivering  pulses  beat  ? 

Thine  eyes  of  blue,  the  heaven's  own  hue, 

Thy  soft  eyes  thrill  my  fevered  pulse ; 
The  fire  that  lies  within  thine  eyes 
Hath  blinded  me  to  all  things  else. 


Charles  Graham  Halplne.  127 


SOME  WISDOM  IN  DOGGEREL. 

We  know  not  why  nor  how  it  is, 

Yet  find  it  every  hour, 
'Twixt  Fortune  and  her  sister  Mis 

There's  most  unequal  power. 
How  quickly  in  our  noon  of  pride 

May  clouds  obscure  the  sun  ; 
How  rapidly  we  fling  aside 

The  wealth  so  hardly  won. 

'Tis  so  where'er  we  turn  our  foot, 

And  sad  it  is  to  write  it ; 
A  whole  long  summer  plumps  the  fruit, 

An  hour  of  frost  can  blight  it. 
What  are  Dame  Fortune's  thousand  smiles 

Against  Miss  Fortune's  frown  ? 
The  ship  has  sailed  a  thousand  miles— 

One  shock — she  settles  down. 

'Tis  so  in  love,  'tis  so  in  fame, 

In  all  we  prize  on  earth  ; 
The  priceless  jewel  of  a  name 

Untarnished  from  our  birth, 
One  moment's  folly,  passion,  haste — 

The  name  is  ruined — gone ! 
So  easy  'tis — so  quick  we  waste 

The  wealth  so  hardly  won. 

Even  love — the  sweetest  flower  that  stirred 

In  all  life's  gloomy  vale, 
An  angry  breath,  a  hasty  word — 

It  sickens  in  the  gale. 
O  Life  !  to  Death  thy  hour-glass  toss, 

Let  all  its  sands  outrun  ; 
We  can  not  daily  bear  the  loss 

Of  joys  so  dearly  won. 


CHANT  OF  THE  NO-KAMI. 

TO  BE  LEARNED  BY  ALL  ADMIRERS  OF  THE  JAPANESE  PRINCES. 

To  pronounce  the  name  of  a  Japanese, 
Give  a  cough  and  hiccough,  a  grunt  and  sneeze, 
Then  finish  the  whole  with  a  whistle,  and,  blame  me  ! 
If  that  ain't  the  name  of  some  grand  No-Kami. 


128  The  Poetical  Works  of 


They  are  clad  in  petticoats  made  of  silk, 
And  they  drink  no  lager,  but  whey  and  milk  ; 
Their  money  goes  down  to  the  tenth  of  a  cent, 
And  they  carry  two  swords — one  straight,  one  bent. 

Namoo  Amida  they  call  their  God, 
And  they  enter  his  churches  with  feet  unshod  ; 
But  their  God  of  Wealth  is  called  Dai  Gak, 
And  his  altars  never  full  worshipers  lack. 

At  Nagasaki  their  foreign  trade 
With  Dutchmen  and  Chinamen  long  was  made ; 
Camphor,  and  coffee,  and  porcelain  rare, 
And  trays  of  their  much-vaunted  lacquer-ware. 

Copper,  and  wax,  and  rice  they  sell ; 

In  heavy  silk  goods  they  bear  the  bell ; 

And  whenever  they  chance  to  fall  into  disgrace, 

Then  they  rip  themselves  open  before  your  face. 

For  this  they  carry  the  second  sword  ; 

And  whene'er  they're  in  debt,  or  default,  or  bored, 

Or  get  a  toothache,  or  make  a  slip, 

They  open  their  bowels,  and  let  things  rip. 

So  honor  the  Japanese  night  and  day, 
With  congenial  blacking-pots  strew  their  way. 
And  if  to  admire  them  you  fail,  don't  blame  me, 
For  this  is  the  song  of  a  Jap  No-Kami. 


THE  BACCHANTES. 

Say,  art  thou  sad  ?  our  golden  cup 

With  precious  balm  is  laden ; 
A  world  of  joy  in  every  drop 

For  man,  and,  eke,  for  maiden. 
Its  scent  outvies  the  rosy  ties 

That  in  our  tresses  cluster ; 
The  light  that  lies  within  our  eyes 

Grows  pale  beside  its  lustre. 

Our  zones  ungirt,  our  pulses  warm, 

Our  thoughts  at  random  roaming, 
Wilt  thou  refuse  the  fragrant  charm, 

Wilt  thou  refuse  it  foaming  ? 
Its  scent  outvies  the  rosy  ties 

That  in  our  tresses  cluster ; 
The  light  that  lies  within  our  eyes 

Grows  pale  beside  its  lustre. 


Charles  Graham  Halpine. 


129 


INDIFFERENCE.20 

Through  days,  and  nights,  and  weary  years 
I  struggle  on,  through  hopes  and  fears, 
If  "hopes"  are  called  those  spectres  gaunt 
That,  like  bog-lanterns,  flare  and  flaunt 
Before  the  way-worn  trav'ler's  face, 
Yet  vanish  as  he  nears. 

And  for  her  sake,  whose  lightest  breath 
Could  give  me  strength  to  cope  with  death, 
And  overcome  where  now  I  die — 
Whose  face  downlooketh  like  the  sky, 
While  trembling  I  await  her  grace, 
Yet  not  a  word  she  saith. 

She  knows  the  purposes  I  frame, 
And  sees  them  fail  me,  aim  by  aim — 
She  sees  wild  passions  tear  my  heart^ 
While  foes  and  snares  around  me  start, 
Yet  her  sweet  breath,that  might  me  save, 
But  serves  to  fan  the  flame. 

She  sees  me  captured  by  their  wiles, 
And  tortured  till  my  soul  reviles 
The  God  who  made  me — sees  me  when 
The  demons  drag  me  down  ;  and  then, 
While  in  their  toils  I  writhe  and  rave, 
Looks  calmly  on — and  smiles. 


ADIEU. 

Oh,  heed  him  not,  if  rhymer  prate 
Of  parted  love  and  endless  woe ; 
True  love  would  scorn  to  babble  so, 
And  grief  is  inarticulate, 

Or  with  a  hoarse  and  broken  flow 
It  rushes,  murmuring,  to  its  fate — 
That  ocean  which,  or  soon  or  late, 
Receives  the  wreck  of  all  we  know, 
Or  be  it  love,  or  be  it  hate. 
Oh,  heed  him  not.     The  spirit  bowed 
With  grief  sincere  was  ne'er  so  loud. 


130  The  Poetical  Works  of 


But  if  to  say  in  simple  praise 

That  I  will  ne'er  forget  you,  friends, 
Though  at  the  earth's  remotest  ends 

I  pass  my  long  unsolaced  days  ; 

That,  when  the  evening  shade  descends, 

And  high  and  bright  the  fagots  blaze, 

My  faithful  heart  your  forms  shall  raise, 
While  memory  the  curtain  rends 

That  Time  would  drop  o'er  earlier  days — 

If  this  content  you,  'tis  sincere, 

Though  vouched  by  neither  oath  nor  tear. 


ONE  DEAD  SURE  THING.-1 

Air:  "  The  Groves  of  Blarney." 

It  is  John  B.  Haskin 

Will  hereafter  bask  in 
The  smiles  of  Johnsing,  who  is  named  An-drew  ; 

For  'twas  John  B.  Haskin 

Did  succeed  the  task  in 
Of  the  "Ninth  Resolution"  putting  squarely  through. 

And  whatever  you  ask  in 

The  name  of  Haskin — 
Be  it  place  in  the  Customs,  or  what  else  he  begs — 

There's  no  need  of  maskin' 

That ;  if  axed  by  Haskin, 
You'll  be  sure  to  get  it— just  as  sure  as  eggs  ! 


MOTTO  OF  THE  MASS.22 

I've  seen  enough  of  life,  although 

Not  yet  beyond  my  prime ; 
With  men  of  all  sorts,  high  and  low, 

I've  mingled  in  my  time. 
When  but  a  boy  it  came  to  pass 

That,  thrown  upon  the  town, 
I  found  the  motto  of  the  mass 

Was,  "Kick  him  when  he's  down." 

And  every  year  since  then  hath  given 
Fresh  proofs  of  this  decree, 

But,  whether  made  in  hell  or  heaven, 
The  doctors  disagree. 


Charles  Graham  Halpine.  131 


I  only  know  the  fact  is  so, 

And — smile  at  it  or  frown — 
The  art  of  life  seems  in  the  strife 

To  kick  whoever's  down. 

Young  Leon  in  his  twentieth  year 

Had  friends,  God  wot !  a  heap ; 
Their  friendship  may  have  been  sincere — 

It  surely  was  not  cheap  ; 
He  came  of  age,  spent  all  he  had, 

And,  wandering  through  the  town, 
Neglected,  hungry,  well-nigh  mad, 

Was  kicked  when  he  was  down. 

Poor  Edith,  too,  the  loveliest  girl 

That  ever  charmed  our  sight, 
Of  beauty's  crown  the  fairest  pearl, 

And  good  as  she  was  bright — 
Alas !  she  fell ;  let  scandal  tell 

The  tale  to  all  the  town ; 
Aloud  proclaim  a  sister's  shame, 

And  kick  her  when  she's  down. 

With  high  and  low,  but  chiefly  so 

Among  the  vulgar  great, 
This  motto  rules,  and  all  are  fools 

Who  dare  its  truth  debate. 
Oh,  brothers !     Earth  were  paradise, 

And  heaven  without  a  frown, 
Could  we  uproot  such  social  lies 

As  "  Kick  him  when  he's  down." 


TIME.23 

Time  rolls  away,  and  bears  along 
A  mingled  mass  of  right  and  wrong ; 
The  flowers  of  love,  that  bloomed  beside 
The  margin  of  his  summer  tide ; 
The  weeds  of  passion,  drenched  and  torn 
From  dripping  banks,  and  headlong  borne 
Into  that  unhorizoned  sea 
Which  mortals  call  eternity. 

Noiseless  and  rapid  as  a  dream 
Forever  flows  the  widening  stream, 
While  every  wave  or  transient  hour 
Heaves  up  a  weed  and  takes  a  flower. 


132  The  Poetical  Works  of 


The  Isle  of  Life,  that  seemed  to  be 
A  continent  infinity, 
Grows  bleaker,  narrower,  clay  by  day, 
And  channeled  by  a  salter  spray. 

Like  shipwrecked  men,  who  closelier  flock 

To  the  bare  summit  of  the  rock 

When  the  loud  storm  that  wrecked  them  flings 

Some  loftier  billow  from  his  wings,. 

We  climb  from  youth's  wave-rippled  strand, 

With  heavier  heart  and  feebler  hand, 

Up  the  gray  rock  of  age,  whose  peak 

Time's  hungry  billows,  mounting,  seek. 

There,  from  the  barren  top,  espy 

A  girth  of  tears — an  ashen  sky ; 

Bowed  heads,  cold  hearts,  and  palsied  feet 

To  Age's  pinnacle  retreat, 

While  the  dull  tide  that  swells  below 

Pursues  them  with  a  sullen  flow — 

The  rock  is  hid,  the  waves  beat  high, 

And,  lo !  an  Ocean  and  a  Sky. 


FIERY  ELOQUENCE.24 

THE   PICTURE  OF   ONE.'WE   KNOW. 

His  mind  throws  out  its  own  discourse, 

Not  checked  nor  helped  by  rule  or  form  ; 
He  utters  by  instinctive  force 

An  eloquence  deep,  terse,  and  warm ; . 
He  is  not  fanciful,  nor  strains 

For  words  or  thoughts  beyond  his  reach- 
A  molten  fury  of  the  veins 

Glows  through  his  lens  of  crystal  speech. 

He  grasps  and  crushes  into  mould 

Whate'er  can  serve  his  headlong  need, 
The  weapon  may  be  brass  or  gold, 

But  it  must  make  the  victim  bleed. 
Imagination's  powers  of  flight 

Are  harnessed  to  his  glowing  wheel — 
Sunward  or  hellward,  wrong  or  right, 

He  will  not  think — he  can  but  feel. 

He  lives  in  pain,  in  fierce  desire,  * 

Or  vain  regret  for  perished  joy ; 

His  aspirations  have  the  fire 

Which  tortures,  but  will  not  destroy ; 


Charles  Graham  Halpine.  133 


He  is  Prometheus  chained  again 

Amid  the  elemental  strife — 
The  scourges  and  the  crowns  of  men 

Are  emblemed  in  his  fitful  life. 

His  joys  are  full  luxuriant  flowers, 

Though  nurtured  on  a  mouldering  root, 
Though  watered  by  the  bitterest  showers, 

And  bearing  a  most  bitter  fruit. 
Keen  shafts  of  sarcasm  now  he  hurls, 

Now  pathos  trembles  in  his  tone, 
And,  in  his  passionate  tide,  he  whirls 

All  souls  that  hear  him  with  his  own. 


FAUGH  AN  BEALLACH.25 

SONG  OF   THE  IRISH  BRIGADE. 

Where  glory's  beams  are  seen,  boys, 

To  cheer  the  way,  to  cheer  the  way, 
We  bear  the  emerald  green,  boys, 

And  clear  the  way,  and  clear  the  way. 
Where  life-blood  torrents  gush,  boys, 

In  battle  fray,  in  battle  fray, 
The  bold  brigade-men  rush,  boys, 

And  clear  the  way,  and  clear  the  way. 

That  home  where  valor  first,  boys,- 

In  all  her  charms,  in  all  her  charms, 
Roused  up  the  souls  she  nursed,  boys, 

And  called  to  arms,  and  called  to  arms — 
That  home  was  surely  worth,  boys, 

The  years  we've  known,  the  years  we've  known, 
Since  treachery  drove  us  forth,  boys, 

To  fight  alone,  to  fight  alone. 

Oh  who,  while  memory's  given,  boys, 

That  hour  forgets,  that  hour  forgets, 
'Tis  like  the  sun  in  heaven,  boys, 

That  never  sets,  that  never  sets ; 
When  England's  legions,  dying, 

Oh  day  of  joy,  oh  day  of  joy, 
Before  our  flag  were  flying 

At  Fontenoy,  at  Fontenoy. 

And  what  is  Sarsfield's  meed,  boys, 

Whose  conquering  smile,  whose  conquering  smile, 
Inspired  each  martial  deed,  boys, 

To  right  our  isle,  to  right  our  isle  ? 


134  The  Poetical  Works  of 


His  memory  still  is  bright'ning 

From  day  to  day,  from  day  to  day, 

As  when  his  sword  of  lightning 
Led  on  the  fray,  led  on  the  fray. 

Then  here's  to  Sarsfield's  glory — 

A  bumper  round,  a  bumper  round — 
And  may  his  deathless  story 

For  aye  be  found,  for  aye  be  found 
A  star  Our  country's  tomb  in — 

A  star  of  light,  a  star  of  light, 
Whose  radiance  may  illumine 

Her  final  light,  her  final  light. 


MATRIMONIAL  COMPLACENCY. 

Since  Grace  and  I  were  double, 

I'd  have  the  world  to  know, 
We've  been  a  goodish  couple, 

As  goodish  couples  go ; 
To  no  ecstatic  passion 

Our  present  hearts  respond, 
But  you  know  'tis  out  of  fashion 

For  couples  to  be  fond. 

I  thought  her  once  angelic — 

A  fairy  she  did  seem — 
There  is  not  now  a  relic 

Of  that  diviner  dream ; 
Her  dress  is  more  than  costly, 

Her  taste  in  music  fine, 
She  eats — and  it  is  vastly, 

As  other  people  dine. 

Nor  am  I  now  her  hero — 

The  worshiped  one  alone ; 
A  matrimonial  Nero 

She  seems  to  think  me  grown ; 
A  brute,  should  I  refuse  her 

That  dear,  sweet  Cashmere  shawl ; 
Worse  than  a  brute  I  use  her 

If  kept  in  town  the  fall. 

Cigars  are  her  abhorrence, 
She  hates  the  sight  of  wine, 

And  no  presumption  warrants 
A  friend  brought  hom'e  to  dine  ; 


Charles  Graham  Halpine.  135 


She  won't  believe  'tis  business 
That  keeps  me  late  at  night, 

And  on  the  slightest  dizziness 
I  am  condemned  as  "tight." 

But  still,  despite  this  trouble, 

These  little  puffs  of  woe, 
We  make  a  goodish  couple, 

As  goodish  couples  go ; 
To  no  ecstatic  passion 

Our  present  hearts  respond, 
But  you  know  'tis  out  of  fashion 

For  couples  to  be  fond. 


"OH,  YOUNG  GEOKDIE  SANDERS." 

Oh,  young  Geordie  Sanders  came  over  the  sea, 
And  of  all  the  good  consuls  the  goodest  is  he ; 
And,  save  his  credentials,  he  letters  had  none — 
He  sailed  on  a  sudden,  and  sailed  all  alone ; 
So  faithful  to  truth  and  his  country  was  he, 
No  "  harder"  American  e'er  crossed  the  sea. 

He  staid  not  to  see  would  the  Senate  conform, 

Hut  crossed  the  Atlantic  through  shine  and  through  storm 

And  when  the  new  consul  at  London  arrived, 

He  showed  his  credentials,  and  then  was  received ; 

For  never  before  did  America  send 

A  consul  unworthy  the  name  of  a  friend. 

So  boldly  he  entered  upon  his  new  place, 

That  we  thought  that  our  Senate  would  never  disgrace 

Its  fame  and  traditions  by  raising  its  voice 

Against  our  executive's  favorite  choice ; 

But  when  in  the  Senate  his  name  was  received, 

The  Cabinet  party  arose  and  upheaved. 

But  Sanders,  we  know,  is  an  excellent  "Hard," 
And  the  Cabinet  "Softs"  did  him  therefore  discard  ; 
And,  when  he  was  named,  all  the  Senate  arose 
Like  a  parcel  of  Turks  at  the  sight  of  their  foes. 
'  There  are  Soft  Shells  in  Gotham,  done  utterly  brown, 
Who  would  gladly  be  consul  to  famed  London  town." 

The  Cabinet  issued  its  orders  to  vote, 
And  the  Senate  reluctantly  opened  its  throat ; 
It  took  down  the  pill,  and  it  threw  up  its  eyes, 
And  '  •  No"  to  the  name  of  George  Sanders  replies, 


136  The  Poetical  Works  of 


Though  the  Democrats  whispered,  ' '  The  slaves  of  Freesoil 
Have  resolved  to  take  e'en  this  last  .bit  of  spoil." 

But  Marcy  and  Gushing,  'twas  they  pulled  the  wires, 
And  'tis  Marcy,  we  know,  that  the  Senate  inspires ; 
For  he  hates  even  more  than  he  hates  me,  the  bard, 
The  welfare  or  name  of  a  "  national  Hard ;" 
And  so  they  refused — though  the  vote  was  absurd — 
While  the  poor  craven  Cabinet  said  not  a  word. 

There  was  reveling  that  night  'mid  the  Cabinet  clan — 
Davis,  Gushing,  and  Marcy  concocted  the  plan — 
There  were  oysters  for  all,  and  Champagne  for  the  crowd 
Who  the  name  of  the  consular  "  Hard"  disallowed ; 
So  luckless  was  Sanders  sent  over  the  sea, 
Have  you  e'er  heard  of  consul  was  treated  as  he  ? 


IRISH  ASTRONOMY.27 

A  VERITABLE  MTTH,  TOUCHING  THE   CONSTELLATION  OF   O'RYAN,  IGNOBANTLY 
AND  FALSELY   SPELLED   ORION. 

O'Ryan  was  a  man  of  might 

Whin  Ireland  was  a  nation, 
But  poachin'  was  his  heart's  delight 

And  constant  occupation. 
He  had  an  ould  militia  gun, 

And  sartin  sure  his  aim  was ; 
He  gave  the  keepers  many  a  run, 

And  wouldn't  mind  the  game  laws. 

St.  Pathrick  wanst  was  passin'  by 

O'Ryan's  little  houldin', 
And,  as  the  saint  felt  wake  and  dhry, 

He  thought  he'd  enther  bould  in. 
"O'Ryan,"  says  the  saint,  "avick! 

To  praich  at  Thurles  I'm  goin', 
So  let  me  have  a  rasher  quick, 

And  a  dhrop  of  Innishowen. " 

"No  rasher  will  I  cook  for  you 

While  betther  is  to  spare,  sir, 
But  here's  a  jug  of  mountain  dew, 

And  there's  a  rattlin'  hare,  sir. " 
St.  Pathrick  he  looked  mighty  sweet, 

And  says  he,  "Good  luck  attind  you, 
And,  when  you're  in  your  windin'  sheet, 

It's  up  to  heaven  I'll  sind  you. " 


Charles  Graham  Halpine.  137 


O'Ryan  gave  his  pipe  a  whiff — 

"Them  tidin's  is  thransportin', 
But  may  I  ax  your  saintship  if 

There's  any  kind  of  sportin'  ?" 
St.  Path  rick  said,  "  A  Lion's  there, 

Two  Bears,  a  Bull,  and  Cancer" — 
" Bedad,"  says  Mick,  "the  huntin's  rare ; 

St.  Pathrick,  I'm  your  man,  sir." 

So,  to  conclude  my  song  aright, 

For  fear  I'd  tire  your  patience, 
You'll  see  O'Ryan  any  night 

Amid  the  constellations. 
And  Venus  follows  in  his  track 

Till  Mars  grows  jealous  raally, 
But,  faith,  he  fears  the  Irish  knack 

Of  handling  the  shillary. 


TO  A  FRIEND.28 

Dear  friend  and  honored,  though  thy  words  be  rough, 
I  take  them  kindly,  for  I  know  them  true ; 
And  that  thy  heart,  an  icicle  to  view, 

Is  warm,  and  made  of  penetrable  stuff. 

Little,  perchance,  had  the  world  cause  to  chide, 
Had  I,  emerging  from  youth's  glittering  gate 
Into  the  riotous  strength  of  man's  estate, 

Found  such  a  friend  to  cheer  me  and  to  guide. 

'Tis  easy  to  condemn,  and  hard  to  spare ; 

And  blood  is  hot,  and  pleasures  will  allure  ; 

And  cloaked  hypocrisy  would  fain  insure 
Its  own  good  name  by  branding  those  who  err. 

I  have  my  sins  as  thick  as  April  showers — 
Some  virtues  also,  if  I  know  my  heart ; 
And  something  tells  me  that  my  latter  part 

Of  life  may  choke  the  weeds  and  feed  the  flowers. 

I  have  been  grateful  for  whatever  good 

Was  strewn  along  my  path — not  overmuch ! 
I  never  yet  with  acrimonious  touch 

Probed  the  diseases  of  another's  blood. 

My  hand  was  free  while  it  had  aught  to  give ; 

I  ne'er  oppressed  when  chance  conferred  the  power  ; 

And  I  have  struggled  many  a  prayerful  hour 
A  worthier  and  more  useful  life  to  live. 


138  The  Poetical  Works  of 


If  wrong  were  offered  me,  I  never  stopped 
To  curse  my  foe,  to  grumble,  or  to  writhe, 
Although  beneath  misfortune's  glittering  scythe 

My  dearest  hopes,  like  crimson  poppies,  dropped. 

Still  struggling  on  to  a  diviner  goal, 

'Though  gored  by  thorns  and  tumbling  into  quags. 

Nor  ever  hesitates,  nor  ever  flags 
The  fixed  resolve  that  centres  in  my  soul ; 

For  life  is  bitt  a  struggle  of  weak  will 
With  intellectual  purpose,  and  the  rod 
Which  chastens  pride  is  in  the  hands  of  God, 

Who  does  not  always  smite  nor  wholly  kill. 

From  the  high  hope  which  filled  my  boyish  heart 
Ne'er  have  my  eye*  been  lured,  nor  have  I  lost 
Faith  in  the  future,  and,  though  tempest-toss'd 

I  still  steer  firmly  by  the  early  chart. 

Should  that  be  right,  my  voyage  prospers  well ; 
Should  that  be  wrongj  I  perish,  and  no  more — 
Another  wreck  upon  a  thankless  shore ; 

But  of  the  issue  let  the  future  tell. 


WEAEIE  PEN. 

I  weary  of  my  pen, 

And  write  not  of  mine  own  accord ; 
It  was  my  slave,  and  I  was  happy  then ; 

'Tis  now  my  lord. 

I  weary  of  the  themes 

Which  the  gross  multitude  pursue ; 
Who  writes  for  bread  must  bid  all  higher  dreams 

His  last  adieu. 

Harness  the  antelope, 

Burden  his  back  until  it  bleeds — 
Trample  his  fiery  spirit,  and  then  hope 

His  former  speed. 

Bid  the  lush  country  yield 

Not  annual  gift,  but  daily  boon — 
A  fungus  growth  defiles  the  morning  field, 

And  rots  ere  noon. 


Charles  Graham  Halpine.  139 


We  squander  sterling  thought 

On  frivolous  feuds  and  foolish  cares ; 

The  harvest  of  our  life  becomes  inwrought, 
And  choked  with  tares. 

Oh  for  song's  daedal  prime, 

When,  wandering  o'er  the  plains  afoot, 
The  shepherd  minstrel  tuned  the  spear  of  time — 

His  shield,  a  lute. 

Ay,  there  were  giants  then, 

Gentle  as  strong,  and  good  as  bold — 
A  stalwart  race  of  freedom-loving  men 

Were  those  of  old. 

Their  blood  "ran  red  and  warm 

Through  healthy  pulses,  and  they  found 

Infinite  loveliness  of  hue  and  form, 
Of  taste  and  sound. 

Their  souls  in  music  bathed, 

Freedom  inspired  their  highest  hymns  ; 
No  mummy-cloths  of  a  dead  custom  swathed 

Their  vigorous  limbs. 

And  yet  in  every  age 

There  must  be  themes  to  touch  the  heart : 
We  have  the  self-same  passions,  joy  and  rage, 

But  lack  their  art. 

We  pore  o'er  books.     They  trod 

Mountain,  and  vale,  and  sounding  shore  ; 

They  make  their  spirits  intimate  with  God 
And  nature's  lore. 

As  falls  the  levin-scaith 

On  the  young  oaks  that  clothe  a  hill, 
We  have  been  stunted  by  our  want  of  faith 

And  resolute  will. 

To  Nature  false,  our  eyes 

See  nothing  beautiful ;  we  warm 
And  stamp  with  social  currency  the  lies 

Of  fraud  and  form. 

Where  passion  throbbed  high  words, 
With  beggar  whine  the  age  complains  ; 

Gone  the  red  glory  of  controlling  swords, 
And  Mammon  reigns. 


140  The  Poetical  Works  of 

Life  grows  a  stagnant  pool, 

Green  with  the  dregs  of  trade  and  toil, 
Youth's  pure  ideals  of  the  beautiful 

Are  Lucre's  spoil. 

I  weary  of  the  pen, 

And  write  not  of  mine  own  accord ; 
It  was  my  slave,  and  I  was  happy  then  : 

Alas !  'tis  now  my  lord. 


A  PICTURE  IN  WATER-COLORS. 

'Twas  a  bright  expanse  of  water 
Where  the  Quaker's  gentle  daughter 
Every  summer  morning  sought  her 

Bath  of  beauty,  light,  and  grace ; 
Quite  a  fleet  of  drifted  lilies 
Danced  above  the  mimic  billows, 
And  a  screen  of  drooping  willows 

Curtained  close  the  bathing-place. 

In  my  skiff  at  random  floating, 
Rod  and  line  but  nothing  noting — 
Ah !  what  subtle  charm  had  boating 

Since  the  bathing-place  was  known ; 
I  across  the  lake  was  drifted, 
While  with  life  my  fancy  gifted 
Every  lily-shoulder  lifted, 

White  and  dimpled  as  her  own. 

"  Ah !  how  clear !"  I  muttered,  eying 
Many  a  colored  pebble  lying 
Far  below,  and  vainly  trying 

On  some  book  to  fix  my  thought ; 
"Now  some  good  breeze  hither  winging, 
Set  yon  silver  curtain  swinging, 
Coolness  to  the  bather  bringing," 

But  the  good  breeze  answered  not. 

Homeward  o'er  the  meadows  tripping, 
All  the  lovelier  for  her  dipping, 
Soon  I  saw  the  maiden  skipping, 

Who  said  archly,  when  we  met, 
"Friend,  thou  hast  grown  fond  of  boating ; 
And  my  weak  heart  quailed  on  noting 
The  malicious  laughter  floating 

In  the  eyes  of  my  coquette. 


Charles  Graham  Halpine.  141 


EPIGRAM 

TO  A  YOUNG  LADY   WHO  ASKED  FOB  HIS  NAME  IN  HEE  ALBUM. 

You  ask  for  my  name !     Ah !  dear  madam,  you  palter 
With  the  hopes  I  have  felt,  as  you  well  understand. 

If  you  wish  for  my  name,  it  is  yours  at  the  altar : 
I'll  give  you  my  name  when  you  give  me  your  hand. 


THE  OLD  YEAR  AND  THE  NEW. 

The  good  Old  Year  hath  run  his  race, 

And  the  latest  hour  draws  near ; 
The  cold  dew  shines  on  his  hoary  face, 
And  he  hobbles  along  with  a  listless  pace, 
To  his  lonely  and  snow-covered  resting-place 

In  the  northern  hemisphere. 

See  how  his  stiff  joints  faint  and  shrink 

As  the  cold  breeze  whistles  by ; ' 
He  hath  a  bitter  cup  to  drink 
As  he  watches  the  sand  in  his  hour-glass  sink, 
Standing  alone  on  the  icy  brink 

Of  the  gulf  of  eternity. 

His  scanty  robe  is  wrapped  more  tight 

As  the  dim  sun  dwindles  down ; 
And  no  stars  arise  to  cheer  the  night 
Of  him  whose  temples  they  once  made  bright, 
When  crimson  roses  and  lilies  white 

Half  hid  his  golden  crown. 

He  reels — he  slips — no  power  at  hand 

To  check  him  from  tumbling  o'er ; 
The  hour-glass  clicks  with  its  latest  sand, 
And  each  movement  falls  like  the  stroke  of  a  brand 
On  one  already  too  weak  to  stand — 

He  falls — he  is  seen  no  more. 

And,  lo !  in  the  east  a  star  ascends, 

And  a  burst  of  music  comes — 
A  young  lord,  followed  by  troops  of  friends, 
Down  to  the  broad  equator  wends, 
While  the  star  that  travels  above  him  bends 

O'er  a  sea  of  floating  plumes. 


142  The  Poetical  Works  of 


And  Hope  springs  up  from  the  couch  of  Care, 
Her  eyes  are  full  of  the  softest  fire, 

A  light  burns  round  her  golden  hair, 

And  her  bosom  is  soft,  and  oh,  how  fair ! 

As  she  clasps  the  boy,  and  presses  him  there, 
As  once  she  had  pressed  his  sire. 

On  every  hill  the  bonfire  glows, 

And  clarions  blend  with  the  beating  drums  ; 
The  yellow  crocus  disparts  the  snows, 
And  the  river,  freed  from  its  bondage,  flows, 
While  sparrows  chirp,  and  the  shrill  cock  crows 

As  the  New.  Year  hitherward  comes. 

His  glittering  mail  he  flings  aside, 

And  we  see  a  robe  of  the  brightest  green  ; 
And  the  velvet  green  but  serves  to  hide 
The  crimson  vest  of  the  richer  pride 
He  dons  in  the  brilliant  summer  tide 
When  he  weds  his  Harvest  Queen. 

But  time  rolls  on ;  and  the  New  Year  turns 

His  wearying  feet  to  the  frozen  north  ; 
The  sun  each  day  more  dimly  burns, 
And  the  mother  earth  each  day  inurns 
Her  summer  brood,  while  the  cold  winds  spurns 
The  victor  it  heralded  forth. 

And  again  the  Old  Year  treads  alone 

To  the  north,  bereft  of  friends : 
He  totters  along  to  the  frozen  zone, 
With  an  icicle  in  each  marrowless  bone, 
And  the  hoarse  wind  buries  his  dying  groan 

As  another  star  ascends. 

Then  kindly  think  of  the  dying  year — 

The  joys,  the  hopes,  and  the  love  he  nursed ; 

Let  fall  a  tear  on  his  narrow  bier ; 

For,  although  not  perfect,  yet  much  I  fear 

That  he  was  the  best  we  shall  ever  see — 
God  grant  he  may  prove  the  worst. 


A  BROADWAY  BELLE. 

I  saw  her  in  the  window — 
She  was  fairest  of  the  fair ; 

I  thought  it  was  no  sin  to 
Kneel  down  before  her  there. 


Charles  GraTiam  Hal/pine.  143 


Her  dress  was  brightest,  fullest, 
That  e'er  by  zone  was  bound ; 

And  her  fan — it  was  the  coolest 
That  e'er  shed  fragrance  round. 

She  turned  around — but  slowly, 

With  a  cold,  unfeeling  grace, 
Although  a  hundred  lowly 

Adored  her  radiant  face ; 
Her  hair  was  dark  as  the  winglets 

By  the  raven's  brood  unfurled, 
And  pearls  were  mixed  in  the  ringlets 

Above  her  bright  brow  curled. 

There  were  brilliant  toys  around  her 

Of  velvet  and  of  silk, 
As  fair  as  those  which  bound  her 

White  shoulders — white  as  milk  ; 
Her  eyes  were  bright,  but  rayless  ; 

They  lacked  the  vital  spark  ; 
And  lovely — could  I  say  less  ? 

The  mind — the  soul  was  dark. 

"  Oh,  loveliest  of  the  gentle  • 

And  fair !"  I  did  repeat, 
"  Behold  me !     I  have  bent  all 

My  passions  to  thy  feet ; 
Grant — and  the  boon  entrances 

Your  poet,  bard,  and  slave — 
One  of  the  kindly  glances 

For  which  all  lovers  crave. " 

Thus  rapt  in  mystic  wonder 

I  stood  before  the  shrine, 
When  a  voice  like  summer  thunder 

Disturbed  this  dream  of  mine.        * 
It  cried,  "  I  am  astonished 

That  to  gain  her  smile  you  strive ; 
Henceforward  be  admonished — 

That  thing  is  not  alive!" 

"Oh,  creature  of  wax  and  leather, 

Of  pulleys,  and  wheels,  and  bran, 
Changeless  in  change  of  weather, " 

It  was  thus  my  answer  ran — 
"  No  blame  to  you,  not  being  human, 

For  your  eyes  of  unpitying  blue ; 
But  I've  knelt  to  a  score  of  live  women. 

Brainless,  lovely,  and  heartless  as  you. 


144  The  Poetical  Works  of 


THINGS  THAT  I  SEEN  AND  HEERD  IN  BUCKIN'HAM 

PALICE 

WHILE  CLANIN'  THE  WINDIES  IN  THE  RED  DHRAWIN'-ROOM. 
BY  GAELAND  o'HALLOBAN,  DEPUTY  ASSISTANT  SUB-DEPUTY  GLAZIEE. 

I  was  clanin'  the  windies 
In  Buckin'ham  Palice, 

An'  I  thought  o'  the  shindies 

O'  Russians  and  Allies, 

Whin  into  the  room,  wid  a  brow  full  of  gloom,  ,, 

An'  a  bottle  of  goold — it  was  filled  with  perfume — 
Held  up  to  her  nose — pop !  past  me  she  goes — 
The  queen !  an'  I  thrembled  in,  undher  me  toes, 
But  she  didn't  perceive  I  was  undher  the  eave, 
So  I  thought  I'd  just  watch  her  a  while,  ere  I'd  leave, 
For  it  struck  me  as  odd  that  her  queenship  should  grieve. 

She  flopped  in  a  chair 

Which  the  flunky  put  there, 

An'  she  "  pished"  an'  she  "  pshawed"  wid  a  wanderin'  air, 
That  was  half  of  it  anger  an'  half  was  despair ; 
An'  the  great  Koh-i-noor,  that  was  fixed  on  her  brow, 
Wid  the  rubies  set  round  it,  flashed  blood-like  enow ; 
An'  over  her  soul,  in  that  dark  hour  of  dole, 
The  red  hand  of  Care  dhrove  his  merciless  plow, 
While  she  thought  of  her  sins  an'  the  big  Russian  row ; 
An'  the  gem  on  her  brow  grew  too  hot  to  retain  it 
Whin  she  thought  of  the  millions  she  butchered  to  gain  it ; 
An',  through  the  thick  mist  that  was  chokin'  her  eye, 
The  ghost  of  her  famine-killed  sisther  went  by. 
In  Ireland  'twas  famine — in  India  'twas  slaughter, 
An'  every  where,  every  where  blood  ran  like  wather. 

Well,  still,  while  I  looked — shure  I  thought  I  was  booked 

To  that  place  where  there's  nothin'  but  kangaroos  cooked, 

For  an  ould  man  came  in — he  was  ugly  as  sin, 

Wid  the  dismalest  grin  round  his  fat  double  chin ; 

An'  he  tucked  up  his  coat-tails  an'  backed  to  the  fire, 

An'  he  looked  at  the  queen  half  in  pity,  half  ire ; 

An'  she  rocked  in  her  chair,  an'  she  tapped  wid  her  toes 

On  the  carpet  of  velvet  that  blushed  like  a  rose, 

An'  she  didn't  seem  plaised  with  the  double-chinned  man, 

But  he  talked  quite  familiar,  and  thus  his  words  ran : 

"  Good-day,  my  Queen  Vic.     Have  you  suffered  a  thrick  ? 
For  you're  lookin'  by  no  means  good-naychured  or  slick."* 


Charles  Graham,  Halpine.  145 


"  Och !  indeed  an'  I'm  sick,  an'  I  can't  ate  a  pick, 
An'  I'm  perishin'  quick  ;  my  legs  isn't  as  thick 
As  your  highly  respectable  goold-headed  stick." 

"  No,  nor  more  nor  a  half — not  a  sign  of  a  calf?" 
An'  I  knew  by  his  laugh  he  was  tippin'  her  chaff 
(For  she's  fat  as  a  puncheon :  an'  dinner,  an'  luncheon, 
An'  breakfasht,  an'  supper,  it  takes  beef  to  stop  her, 
An'  plenty  of  that — gravied,  spicy,  and  fat ; 
An'  rich  wine  and  portlier'  must  flow  at  her  ordher — 
I'm  tellin'  no  lies,  sir,  'tis  the  doctors  advise  her). 

"  Now  tell  me  what's  wrong,"  sez  he ; 
"  Don't  keep  me  long,"  sez  he, 
"  For  I'm  dhry,  an'  I  think 
That  I'd  much  like  a  dhrink." 

"  Take  your  time,  my  ould  brick,"  sez  she ; 

"Don't  be  so  quick,"  sez  she, 

"  An'  I'll  make  a  clane  breast,  for  my  throubles  is  thick,"  sez  she ; 
"I  ordhered  the  pick  of  my  sojers  to  lick, 
Bate,  wallop,  an'  kick  that  ould  thievin'  rogue  Nick ; 
I  thought  he'd  cut  his  stick  whin  he  heard  the  first  click 
Of  my  bombs,  an'  my  rifles,  an'  other  such  thrifles ; 
But  he  didn't  do  it,  an'  I'm  like  to  rue  it, 
An'  God  knows  at  all  how  I'll^ver  get  through  it." 

"  Och !  conshume  the  ould  rogue,  wid  his  Cossacky  brogue ; 
Him  an'  Prussia'll  collogue,  as  wid  kings  'tis  the  vogue, 
An'  the  Austriches  too — they'll  be  into  the  stew, 
An'  ferment  in  the  brew ;  an',  'tis  every  way  thrue, 
My  lady,  your  queenship,  that  things  does  look  blue, 
An'  no  wondher  you  feel  just  as  bad  as  you  do." 

"Och!  that  ain't  the  worst  of  it — 

Only  the  first  of  it. 
Come,  I'll  tell  all,  or  I  fear  I  shall  burst  of  it. 

There's  wan  Lewy  Nap — 

He's  a  hang-gallows  chap, 

An'  the  likes  of  him,  rightly,  should  take  off  his  cap 
To  the  likes  of  meself ;  but  that's  not  like  to  hap, 
For  he  cribbed  at  a  throne,  an'  has  made  it  his  own, 
An'  has  gathered  an'  keeps  at  a  place  called  Boolone 
(From  whence  they  can  see  Dover  Lights  an'  Folkstone) 
An  army  of  men  that  are  just  wan  to  ten 
(I  mane  ten  to  wan — but  my  senses  is  gone) 
Of  the  whole  of  my  force — cannon,  footmen,  an'  horse  ; 
An'  that  ould  Aberdeen — he's  a  dirty  spalpeen — 
But  keep  (an'  she  winked)  what  I  tell  you  between 
Yourself  and  the  bedpost— you  know  what  I  mean. 

10  G 


146  The  Poetical  Works  of 


Well,  he  came  in  wan  day,"  sez  she, 

"  Wrigglin'  his  way,"  sez  she, 
' '  An'  I  knew  by  his  mug  that  he  meant  no  child's  play, "  sez  she. 

"  Sez  he,  '  Mrs.  Vic,'  sez  he, 

'  Dhress  yourself  quick,'  sez  he  ; 

'  I've  asked  Lewy  over,  wid  his  wife — "  fammy  cover," 
As  at  Paris  we  say — an'  they'll  soon  be  at  Dover. 

They're  now  on  their  way, 

So  look  afther  the  tay, 

For  you  know  we  must  make  a  most  sumpshis  display. 
Get  some  nice  oysther  stews,  bully-beef  and  ragoos, 
Wid  a  bushel  of  frogs  for  the  d — d  parley  voos ! 
They're  fond  of  what's  nice — must  I  bid  you  go  twice  ?' 
An'  his  thin  fingers  clutched  themselves  up  like  a  vice. 

'  Conshumin'  the  bit,'  sez  I, 

'At  the  table  I'll  sit,'  sez  I, 

'  Wid  the  beggar-born  chap 

That  they  call  Lewy  Nap  ; 
If  he  come,  he  must  dine  at  the  scullery  tap. 

But  who  axed  him  to  come  ?'  sez  I ; 

'  Why,  are  you  dumb  ?'  sez  I. 

'  Do  you  know,  my  ouldbuck,  that  you're  undher  my  thumb  ?'  sez  I. 
'  Your  majesty — why,'  sez  he, '  he's  your  ally,'  sez  he ; 
'  Besides,  though  to  get  them  away  I  did  thry,'  sez  he, 
'  In  the  camp  at  Boolone,  in  that  wan  camp  alone — 
Which  looks  so  convayniently  over  Eolkstone — 
He  has  ten  times  ten  thousand  of  French  flesh  an'  bone ; 
An'  the  French  flesh  an'  bone  is  all  weaponed  and  ready, 
Its  thrainin'  is  good,'  an'  its  practice  is  steady*, 
An'  London  is  richer,  an'  not  half  so  far, 
As  that  murdherin'  Cronstadt  that's  owned  by  the  Czar.' 

'  My  ally  he  is  not, '  sez  I, 

For  my  blood  it  was  hot ;  sez  I — 
'  An'  as  for  Eugenie,'  sez  I,  'is  she  fit  to  be  seen,'  sez  I. 
'  Wid  a  regular  queen  ?'  sez  I — '  it's  meself  I  mean,'  sez  I. 
Then  he  flew  in  a  rage,  an'  he  made  me  engage 
To  take  all  soorts  of  thrubble  for  the  parley-voo  couple ; 
An'  whin  Lewy  is  come,  we  must  bate  the  big  dhrum, 
An'  play  thrumpet  an'  fife  in  an  emulous  sthrife, 
To  do  honfir  to  mounseer  an'  his  thrallop  of  a  wife." 

"  Then  how  goes  the  fightin'  ?"  sez  he  ; 

"  Have  you  done  the  inditin',"  sez  he, 
"Of  thim  notes  that  took  nine  men  a  month  in  the  writin'?"  sez  he. 

"Have  thim  ould  diplomats,"  sez  he, 

"  That's  as  cunnin'  as  cats,"  sez  he, 
"  Scared  the  Bear  of  the  North  wid  their  parchment  flats  ?"  sez  he. 


diaries  Graham  Halpine.  147 


' '  Och !  good  luck  to  their  souls,  wid  their  protocoals ! 
Shure  their  rigmaroles  were  so  full  o'  holes 
That  the  rats  and  the  bats  slipped  in  it  an'  out, 
An'  the  Austriches  echoed  the  Prussians'  shout, 
An'  it  gives  me  the  gout  to  think  what  they're  about ; 
For,  to  my  eyes,  its  every  where  jumble  and  rout. 
They're  all  tellin'  lies,  throwin'  dust  in  my  eyes, 
An'  the  man  that  lies  deepest  'tis  him  that  is  wise. " 

"  What  started  the  war  ?     What  are  you  fightin'  for 

Wid  your  highly  respectable  cousin  the  Czar  ? 

Do  your  sympathies  lurk  wid  the  infidel  Turk  ? 

An'  why,  wid  ould  Nick,  don't  you  make  it  short  work  ? 

Shure  each  school-boy  repeats  that  Britannia,  she  beats 

All  creashin  to  smash  wid  her  sojers  and  fleets  ?" 

"  Nabocklish !     No !"  sez  she ;  "  I  wanst  thought  so,"  sez  she  ; 
"  The  historians  blow,"  sez  she  ;  "  but  it  ain't  no  go !"  sez  she, 
"As  I  feel  very  keenly,  an'  much  to  my  woe,"  sez  she. 
"  I  sent  Charley  Napier,  who  knows  how  to  steer 
First  rate,  as  I  hear,  an'  he  wint  very  near 
To  the  Cronstadt  pier ;  but  he  thought  it  looked  queer, 
An'  he  cum  back  here  wid  a  flay  in  his  ear. 
An'  he  swears  it  was  all  the  Reform  Club  beer 
That  muddled  his  head  whin  he  solemnly  said 
•That  he'd  pull  the  Czar's  lug  in  St.  Petersburg, 
Or  be  off  to- hell 

In  a  three  weeks'  time. 
An',  indeed,  'twould  be  well 

If  he'd  make  the  fact  chime 

Wid  his  plighted  promise.     A  good  riddance  from  us ! 
Thin  there's  ould  Dundas. "  sez  she ;  "  to  my  thinkin'  an  ass, "  sez  she ; 
"  Not  worth  his  grass,"  sez  she ;  "  but  let  that  pass,"  sez  she. 
"  Shure  he  talked  like  a  Nelson,  or  some  other  red-hell-son, 
Of  tundher  and  blood,"  sez  she,  "whin  he  swore  that  he  could,"  sez 
she, 

* '  Take  some  jaw-breakin'  town, "  sez  she,     ' 

"I  could  never  get  down,"  sez  she. 

"  It  was  built  by  a  basthard,  I  think, 

An'  called  afther  the  dasthard,  I  think  ; 

It  ends  wid  a  '  pol,' "  sez  she, 

"An'  is  girt  wid  a  wall,"  sez  she ; 
An'  up  to  this  time  we're  not  shure  of  its  fall,"  sez  she ; 
"  So  I  sent  Lord  Raglan,  wid  the  juke  for  his  flagman — 
Not  the  '  Iron  Juke,'  "  sez  she,  "  wid  a  nose  like  a  hook,"  sez  she, 
"  Whose  ould  brazen  cloak  an'  whose  murdherin'  look,"  sez  she, 
"Upon  Hyde  Park  corner,  is  a  caution  and  warner 
To  any  dead  nigger  not  to  swell  any  bigger 


148  The  Poetical  Works  of 


Than  his  breeches  will  hould,"sez  she,  "lest  he  burst  and  get  cowld, 

sez  she, 

"As  ould  Boney  did  do  at  the  famed  Watherloo,"  sez  she. 
"  Arrah !  what  'ud  he  say,  could  he  only  look  through 
From, the  high  place  or  low  place  he's  now  gone  unto, 
An'  find  us  .allied  to  the  young  Parleyvoo  ? 
It  was  Cambridge's  juke  for  the  scrimmage  I  took ; 
An'  now  here's  a  saycrit — but  swear  on  the  book 
That  you'll  never  divulge  it  by  hook  or  by  crook — 
For  you'd  ruin  me  sthraight,  an'  my  throne  'ud  be  shook. 

"  Shure  to  fear  I  began 
That  they'd  ax  my  ould  man — 
He's  field-marshal,  they  say,"  sez  she, 
"An'  I  know  he's  dhrawn  pay,"  sez  she, 
"  This  many  a  day,"  sez  she. 

"An'  he  made  a  new  hat  from  the  skin  of  a  cat, 

An'  I've  heerd,  an',  indeed,  even  Punch  owns  to  that, 

That  the  hat  bids  defiance  to  milithary  science 

To  pass  or  to  peer  it,  or  even  come  near  it, 

In  the  way  of  a  shed,"  sez  she,  "for  a  sojer's  head,"  sez  she  ; 
*'  But  he's  tendher  an'  weakly,"  sez  she, 
"An5  of  late  somewhat  sickly,"  sea  she, 
"  Wid  a  bad  rheumatiz,"  sez  she, 
"  In  that  sword-arm  of  his,"  sez  she. 

"  He  tuk  ill  the  first  night  that  we  heerd  of  the  fight ; 

An',  since  Inkermann,"  sez  she,  "  no  mortal  can,"  sez  she, 

"Describe  what  he  feels  from  his  head  to  his  heels ; 

He's  in  a  cold  sweat  till  it  makes  his  sheets  wet, 

An'  he's  shiv'rin  an'  shakin',  and  his  bones  they  are  achin', 

An'  he's  thremblin'  an'  sore  to  his  very  heart's  core, 

An'  he's  worn  out  intirely,  an'  worried  what's  more. 
He's  a  soldier  thrue,"  sez  she, 
"An'  at  Chopham  Review,"  sez  she, 
"I  seen  him  to  do,"  sez  she, 
'     "  Things  to  make  you  look  blue,"  sez  she. 
"An'  he's  ravin*  quite,  by  day  and  by  night, 
To  be  into  the  fight,  as  is  proper  an'  right ; 
An'  he  swears  that  he'd  kill,"  sez  she — 

"If  it  worn't  for  the  accident  that  he  happens  to  be  ill,"  sez  she — 

"Ould  Mentschikoff  an'  the  Prince  Pop-em-off, 

Liprandi,  an'  Luders,  an'  Count  Orloff ; 

But  he  says  he  can  not  think  of  it  until  he  cures  his  cough. 

Och !  his  pains  is  cruel ;  he's  as  wake  as  wather  gruel ; 

An'  should  any  wan  hint — in  speeches  or  print — 

That  the  man  who  does  quartherly  dhraw,"  sez  she, 
"In  accordions  wid  milithary  law,"  sez  she,  * 


Charles  Graham  Halpine. 


149 


"The  highest  pay 

Should  take  part  in  the  fray, 

Och !  he'd  faint  away 

From  the  blessed  light  of  day ! 
Me  poor  Albert  'ud  fall,  rowled  up  in  a  ball, 
His  bowels  'ud  turn  into  wather  an'  gall — 
An'  I  know  widows'  caps  don't  become  me  at  all." 

"Well,  now,  Mrs. Vic"— 

An'  his  eye  had  a  thrick 
As  cunnin'  an'  knowin'  as  a  cat's  that  is  goin', 
Whin  the  cook's  asleep,  wid  the  softest  creep, 
To  lick  fresh  butther — "  if  you  let  me,  I'll  utther 
Some  good  advice,"  sez  he,  "  an'  think  over  it  twice,"^ez  he. 

"Go  an' make  your  ould  man,"  sez  he, 

"Just  as  soon  as  he  can,"  sez  he, 

"  Cure  the  rheumatiz,"  sez  he, 

"In  that  sword-arm  of  his,"  sez  he, 

"  Or  he'd  betther  resign,"  sez  he, 

"  His  uniform  fine,"  sez  he, 

"An'  fall  out  o'  the  line,"  sez  he. 

"Och !  but,  thin,  the  pay  ?"  sez  she, 
"It  'ud  go  asthray,"  sez  she, 
"An'  that's  not  at  all  afther  Albert's  way,"  sez  she. 

"  Resign  that  too,"  sez  he, 

"  For,  betune  me  an'  you,"  sez  he, 

"  Whin  the  people  see,"  sez  he, 

"  (Betune  you  an'  me),"  sez  he, 
"Their  gallant  field-marshal  to  rheumatiz  partial 
Whin  colors  are  flyin',  an'  thousands  are  dyin' 
For  a  shillin'  a  day  round  Sevastopol's  Bay, 
They'll  begin  to  compare  the  sick  gentleman's  pay 
Wid  the  throoper's  who  dashed  through  the  thick  of  the  fray, 
Where  bullets  were  whizzing  an'  sabres  did  play 
On  casque  an'  cuirass,  an'  the  min  fell  like  grass, 
While  the  field-marshal — Balaam-like — sat  on  his  ass, 
An'  prayed  for  the  foes  he  was  bound  to  oppose 
From  the  top  of  his  head  to  the  root  of  his  toes. 
Let  him  give  up  his  place  wid  whatever  of  grace 
Can  be  possibly  lint  to  so  dirty  a  case, 
Or  the  very  ould  wimin  will  spit  in  his  face, 
An'  the  childher,  God  bless  'em !  throw  dirt  at  his  grace. 
Inniskiljing's  an'  Grays,  Irish  Lancers  and  Bays — 
Whatever  poor  wreck  of  them!s  left  in  these  days — 
The  men,  not  of  rank,  who  dhrove  spurs  in  the  flank 
Of  their  chargers,  an'  dashed  up  the  cannon-plowed  bank, 
While  the  grape  an'  cross-fire  mowed  them  down  rank  by  rank 


150  The  Poetical  Works  of 


Never  haltin',  though  reelin',  but  formin'  and  wheelin' 

Again  an'  again,  wid  diminishin'  min, 

While  the  pulks  of  the  Cossackry  crowded  the  glin. 

No  end  to  their  labors — no  rest  for  their  sabres — 

Blood-spatthered,  they  could  not  be  known  by  their  neighbors. 

An'  still  by  sheer  steel,  strength  of  hand,  heart,  an'  heel, 

Though  shatthered,  disordhered,  invincible  still, 

Through  a  long  lane  of  fire — through  a  laygion  of  foes — 

Grimly  forced  to  retire — the  Light  Cavalry  goes. 

They've. left — an'  what  thin? — just  three  fourths  of  their  min 

To  fat  the  next  harvest  in  Inkermann's  glin ; 

But  the  colors  they  bore,  though  bedabbled  with  gore, 

Still  wave  o'er  the  remnant  returnin'  once  more. 

What  a  sight  there  will  be,  should  they  ever  come  back, 

An'  the  field-marshal—partial  to  a  timely  attack 

Of  the  rheumatic  fayver — should  fall  in  their  thrack!" 

What  more  there  was  said, 

Shure,  no  more  than  the  dead 
Do  I  know,  for  I  chanced  to  lane  forward  my  head, 
An'  the  queen  gave  a  scream  an'  the  man  gave  a  start, 
An'  I  judged  it  was  best  for  meself  to  depart. 

Deputy  Glazier's  Room,  Buckin'ham  Palice,) 
London,  December  4, 1854.  j 


WOMAN'S  RIGHTS. 

Oh,  ladies,  will  you  hear  a  truth, 

Of  late  too  seldom  told  to  you, 
Nor  deem — he  begs  it  of  your  ruth — 

The  writer  over-bold  to  you  ; 
For,  by  the  pulses  of  his  youth, 

He  never  yet  was  cold  to  you, 
And  therefore  'tis  in  sober  sooth 

That  he  would  now  unfold  to  you 
What  may— apart  from  rhythmic  flights- 
Be  called  the  sum  of  "Woman's  Rights. 

For  you  the  calm  sequestered  bowers, 

For  us  to  kneel  and  sue  to  you ; 
Your  feet  upon  the  path  of  flowers 

We  struggle  still  to  strew  to  you ; 
For  you  to  drop  the  healing  showers 

Of  kindness— gentle  dew  to  you — 
On  failing  health  and  wasted  powers — 

The  task  is  nothing  new  to  you — 


Charles  Graham  Ilalpine.  151 


*•'•  Oh,  these,  indeed" — 'tis  Love  indites — 
'•These  are  unquestioned  Woman's  Rights." 

All  hail !  we  cry,  the  stormiest  hours, 

If  thus  a  joy  we  woo  to  you ; 
For  us,  of  life's  drugged  bowl,  the  sours, 

If  so  the  sweets  ensue  to  you. 
When  many  a  heavy  hap  was  ours, 

Fond  retrospection  flew  to  you  ; 
Good  husbands  and  unstinted  dowers, 

And  smiling  babes  accrue  to  you  ; 
And,  let  me  ask,  what  maiden  slights 
These  latter-mentioned  "Woman's  Rights?" 

The  faithfulness,  the  grace,  the  high, 

Pure  thoughts  of  life  we  gain  by  you  ; 
The  vision  of  a  softer  eye, 

The  finer  touch  attain  by  you ; 
Weak  hopes  that  unto  death  are  nigh 

Out-leaning,  we  sustain  by  you; 
And  when  misfortune  sweeps  the  sky, 

Our  anchored  hearts  remain  by  you. 
Long  days  of  toil  and  feverish  nights 
WTould  ill  repay  these  "  Woman's  Rights." 

Why  quit  the  calm  and  holy  hearth 

That  is  heaven's  antepast  to  us, 
To  face  the  sterner  scenes  of  earth, 

The  troubles  that  are  cast  to  us  ? 
Why  change  your  soul's  unsullied  mirth 

For  woes  that  rush  so  fast  to  us, 
That  we  would  daily  curse  our  birth 

Were  not  your  sphere  at  last  to  us — 
That  sphere  of  home,  which  well  requites 
The  loss  of  these  unsexing  rights. 


AN  OLFACTORY  ODE  IN  PRAISE  OF  NEW  YORK 
CLEANLINESS. 

J5Y    OTTR   POET   WITH   A   COLD   IN    HIS   HEAP. 

Thank  heaven  !  the  crisis, 

The  terror  is  past, 
And  the  sense  they  call  smelling 

Hath  perished  at  last ; 
And  the  anguish  of  smelling 

Is  over  at  last. 


152  The  Poetical  Works  of 


Sadly  I  know 

Of  one  sense  I'm  forlorn, 
But  with  pleasure  and  profit 

The  loss  may  be  borne ; 
With  profit  and  pleasure 

That  loss  may  be  borne. 

And  I  walk  so  composedly 
Now  through  the  street, 

That  any  beholder 
Might  fancy  my  feet 

Were  treading  on  roses 
All  fragrant  and  sweet. 

The  stifling  and  choking, 
The  odors  and  stenches, 

Are  quieted  now ; 

The  olfactory  wrenches, 

That  maddened  my  brow, 

Are  gone.     Ah !  those  horrible, 
Horrible  stenches ! 

The  sickness — the  nausea — 

The  pitiless  pain, 
Have  ceased  with  the  smelling 

That  maddened  my  brain ; 
With  the  smell  of  the  garbage 

That  rose  to  my  brain. 

And,  oh  !  of  all  odors, 

That  odor  the  worst — 
The  odor  commingled 

Of  sauerkraut  accursed ; 
The  odors  of  fish 

And  of  sauerkraut  accursed — 
That  torture  no  more 
•    In  my  nostril  is  nursed. 

And,  ah  !  let  it  never 

Be  foolishly  said 
That  I  am  regretting 

The  cold  in  my  head ; 
The  cold  whence  this  numbness 

Of  smelling  is  bred. 
For  now  I  walk  happily, 

Fearless  of  any 
Diversified  odors — 

Although  there  are  many  ; 
For  my  nostril  is  choked, 

And  I  care  not  for  any. 


Charles  Graham  Halpine.  153 


And  happy  am  I  with 

A  cold  in  my  head ! 
The  dank  exhalation 

From  garbage-heaps  bred, 
The  sewerage  and  filth 

Upon  which  hogs  are  fed, 
Never  trouble  me,  bless'd 

With  a  cold  in  my  head. 


A  PUNGENT  CONSIDERATION  OF  THE  VARIOUS 
TRADES  AND  CALLINGS. 

Of  all  the  trades  that  men  may  call 

Unpleasant  and  offensive, 
The  editor's  is  worst  of  all, 

For  he  is  ever  pen-sive ; 
His  leaders  lead  to  nothing  high, 

His  columns  are  unstable, 
And  though  the  printers  make  him  pie, 

It  does  not  suit  his  table. 

The  carpenter — his  course  is  plane, 

His  bit  is  always  near  him ; 
He  augers  every  hour  of  gain, 

He  chisels — and  none  jeer  him ; 
He  shaves,  yet  is  not  close,  they  say ; 

The  public  pay  his  board,  sir ; 
Full  of  wise  saws,  he  bores  away, 

And  so  he  swells  his  hoard,  sir. 

St.  Crispin's  son — the  man  of  shoes, 

Has  awl  things  at  control,  sir ; 
He  waxes  wealthy  in  his  views, 

But  ne'er  neglects  his  sole,  sir ; 
His  is,  indeed,  a  heeling  trade ; 

And  when  he  comes  to  casting 
The  toe-tal  profits  he  has  made, 

We  finft  his  ends  are  lasting. 

The  tailor,  too,  gives  fits  to  all, 

Yet  never  gets  a  basting ; 
His  cabbages,  however  small, 

Are  most  delicious  tasting ; 
His  goose  is  heated — happy  prig ! 

Unstinted  in  his  measure ; 
He  always  plays  at  thimble-rig, 

And  seams  a  man  of  pleasure. 

G  2 


154  The  Poetical  Works  of 


The  farmer  reaps  a  fortune  plump, 

Though  harrowed,  far  from  woe,  sir ; 
His  spade  forever  proves  a  trump, 

His  book  is  l've-an-hoe,  sir ; 
However  corned,  he  does  not  slip  ; 

Though  husky,  never  hoarse,  sir ; 
And  in  a  plowshare  partnership 

He  gets  his  share,  of  course,  sir. 

The  sailor  on  the  giddy  mast — 

Comparatively  master — 
Has  many  a  bulwark  round  him  cast 

To  wave  away  disaster ; 
Even  shrouds  to  him  are  full  of  life, 

His  mainstay  still  is  o'er  him, 
A  gallant  and  a  top-gallant  crew 

Of  beaux  esprits  before  him. 

The  sturdy  Irish  laborer  picks 

And  climbs  to  fame — 'tis  funny ! 
He  deals  with  none  but  regular  bricks, 

And  so  he  pockets  money ; 
One  friend  sticks  to  him  (mortar  'tis)         =• 

In  hodden  gray,  unbaffled, 
He  leaves  below  an  honest  name 

When  he  ascends  the  scaffold. 

The  printer,  though  his  case  be  hard, 

Yet  sticks  not  at  his  hap,  sir ; 
'Tis  his  to  canonize  the  bard, 

And  trim  a  Roman  Cap,  sir. 
Some  go  two-forty — what  of  that  ? 

He  goes  it  by  the  thousand ; 
A  man  of  form,  and  fond  of  fat, 

He  loves  the  song  I  now  send. 

The  engine-driver,  if  we  track 

His  outward  semblance  deeper, 
Has  got  some  very  tender  traits — 

He  ne'er  disturbs  the  sleeper  * 
And  when  you  switch  him  as  he  goes, 

He  whistles  all  the  louder ; 
And  should  you  brake  him  on  the  wheel, 

It  only  makes  him  prouder. 

I  launched  this  skiff  of  rhymes  upon 
The  trade-winds  of  the  Muses, 

Through  pungent  seas  they've  borne  it  on, 
The  boat  no  rudder  uses  ; 


Charles  Graham  Halpine.  155 


So  masticate  its  meaning  once, 
And  judge  not  sternly  of  it — 
You'll  find  a  freight  of  little  puns, 
And  very  little  profit. 


THE  FERRY-BOAT. 

Let  them  rave  of  the  bowers  that  are  beaming  with  roses, 

Where  young  lovers  whisper  the  moonlight  away, 
But  the  scene  that  I  fix  for  my  courtship  discloses 

Attractions,  though  public,  more  brilliant  and  gay. 
What  care  I  for  walks  in  the  leaf-shaded  alleys, 
For  kisses  in  hay-fields,  and  sighs  on  the  hill; 
For  love  is  but  love  in  the  streets  or  the  valleys, 
And  all  that  it  needs  is  an  intimate  will. 

Oh,  give  me  a  merry  short  trip  on  the  ferry, 
With  I  and  my  fair  in  a  corner  ensconced ; 
'Mid  the  hustling  and  bustling,  the  jostling  and  tussli'ng, 
We  sit  unobserved,  in  our  own  dreams  entranced. 

It  is  exquisite,  very,  that  trip  on  the  ferry — 

The  roar  of  the  wheels  in  a  fine  double  bass 
To  the  tenor  of  whispers  from  dear  rosy  lispers, 

With  love  in  their  hearts,  but  reproof  on  each  face. 
What  countless  sensations  !     What  men  from  all  nations 

Are  crowded  and  jammed  in  the  one  little  boat ! 
There  are  German  and  Spanish,  Dutch,  Irish,  and  Danish — 
Our  ark  is  a  species  of  Babel  afloat. 

But  still  it  is  merry,  that  trip  on  the  ferry, 

With  I  and  my  fair  in  a  corner  ensconced ; 
'Mid  the  crowd  of  stock-brokers  and  Joe  Miller  jokers, 
We  sit  unobserved,  in  our  own  dreams  entranced. 

The  chains  rattle  loudly,  the  steam  whistles  proudly, 

The  wheels  beat  the  water,  the  furnaces  flame ; 
Some  laggards,  belated,  are  gibed  at  and  rated, 

While  some  make  a  jump,  but  fall  short  of  their  aim  •, 
And  there  on  the  ferry,  like  straws  in  iced  sherry, 
They  stick  half  way  up,  calling  fiercely  for  aid ; 
While  the  lucky  ones,  laughing,  and  sneering,  and  chaffing, 
Are  straight  to  New  York  from  the  Fulton. conveyed. 
'Tis  dangerous,  very,  that  jump  for  the  ferry, 

But  what's  it  to  us  in  our  corner  ensconced ; 
If  a  fool  likes  to  do  it,  why  then  let  him  rue  it — 
We  sit  unobserved,  in  our  own  dreams  entranced. 


156  The  Poetical  Works  of 

What  is  life  but  a  ferry — a  dismal  one,  very — 

it  starts  from  the  cradle,  its  goal  is  the  grave ; 
And  yet  we  can  make  it,  if  rightly  we  take  it, 

A  sweet,  pleasant  trip  o'er  a  sun-gilded  wave. 
With  a  partner  to  cheer  us,  a  friend  sitting  near  us, 

With  Truth  for  our  pilot  and  Fame  for  our  fire, 
We  can  make  it  as  pleasant  as  this  is  at  present, 

And  what  more  delightful  could  mortal  desire  ? 
A  transient,  but  merry  trip  over  the  ferry 

™r-rue-J°y  that  h  gives  from  its  briefness  enhanced— 
With  the  hustling  and  bustling,  the  jostling  and  tussling, 
W  e  11  sit  unobserved,  in  our  own  dreams  entranced 


COMPOSITION  DUETT. 

ROMEO  (the  romantic  man). 
In  my  dreams  beneath  a  willow, 
I  heard  thee  cry  "  Depart !" 

FUBBS  (the  matter-of-fact  individual). 
"And  an  ice-cream  of  Vanilla 
Was  not  colder  than  thy  heart. " 

ROMEO. 

Ah !  Love's  fever,  how  imperious — 
How  the  passionate  pain  exalts ! 

FUBBS. 

' '  Fever,  really !     Are  you  serious  ? 
Try  a  dose  of  Epsom  salts. " 

ROMEO. 

Laura  Liddowe !  Laura  Liddowe ! 
Thou  hast  ta'en  thy  lover's  life. 

FUBBS  (indignantly). 
"  Would  you  make  the  maid  a  widow 
Who  has  never  been  a  wife  ?" 

ROMEO. 

When  I'm  dead,  I  pray  thee  gather 
Flowers  to  deck  my  lowly  bed — 

FUBBS. 

"  Pooh !  I  say — the  girl  would  rather 
One  live  beau  than  fifty  dead." 


Charles  Graham  Halpine. 


157 


Laura  Liddowe,  might  a  flowery 
Band  our  hearts  together  bind— 

FUBBS  (urgently). 

' '  Say  you'll  fix  a  handsome  dowry, 
And  I  guarantee  her  kind." 


Shine,  ye  stars — ah !   shine  above  her ; 
Bear  my  passions  in  your  beams — 

FUBBS  (indignantly}^ 
"  Tell  her  plumply  that  you  love  her, 
And  have  done  with  idle  dreams. " 


Wilt  thou  have  me  ?     Say,  my  fairest 
Queen ;  for  thus  my  fancy  dubbs — 

FUBBS  (gloriously). 
"  I  would  simply  say,  '  My  dearest, 
Will  you  be  my  Mrs.  Fubbs  ?' " 


LE  PRINTEMPS. 

FBOM  THE  FRENCH  OF  DESANGIEB. 

Youths  and  maidens,  come, 
The  skies  are  bright  above, 

Blow  the  fife  and  strike  the  drum — 
Let  us  sing  of  love. 

The  thick  leaves  overhead 
Will  fling  a  shadow  deep 

Over  the  ferny  bed 

On  which  we  sit  or  sleep. 

Thanks  to  their  pulses  high, 

And  the  high  sun,  bright  as  gold, 

Phillis  becomes  less  shy 

As  Colin  becomes  more  bold. 

Agnes  would  believe 

That  love's  delicious  glow 

Her  breast  will  never  heave 
When  violets  cease  to  blow. 


158  The  Poetical  Works  of 


Spurning  the  restraint 

Imposed  by  fashion's  goddess, 
Hearts  their  bondage  break,  N 

Heaving  breasts  the  bodice. 

Season,  sweetly  strung, 

How  thy  genial  charm 
Makes  the  mother  young, 

And  makes  the  daughter  warm. 

Now  the  dotard  feels 

A  thrill  of  new  desire, 
O'er  the  husband  steals 

The  lover's  former  fire. 

The  river,  murmuring  on, 

The  lambs  that  frisk  and  fling, 

The  sky,  whose  clouds  are  gone — 
All  nature  seems  to  sing. 

Every  hour  that  rolls 

Leads  us  near  the  time 
When  to  our  wintry  souls 

The  year  will  have  no  prime. 

Therefore,  youths  and  maidens,  come, 
While  the  skies  are  bright  above — 
Bright,  and  warm,  and  vast  above — 

Blow  the  fife  and  strike  the  drum, 
And  let  us  sing  of  love. 


MY  SOUTHWARD  WINGING  ORIOLE. 

The  fading  sunset's  golden  light 
Was  glancing  over  town  and  river, 

When  flashed  a  vision  on  my  sight, 
One  moment  seen,  yet  fixed  forever. 

On  memory's  retina  still  glows 

That  picture,  all  my  heart  entrancing ; 

The  rosy  mouth — the  brow  of  snow, 

The  blue  eyes  in  sweet  dalliance  dancing. 

The  dimples  in  her  soft  chin  set, 

Her  maiden  smile  serene  and  peaceful, 

And  those  brown  locks — ah !  never  yet 
Were  tendrils  of  the  vine  more  graceful. 


Cliarles  Graham  Halpine.  159 


She  came  in  robes  of  Quaker  hue, 

Such  livery  as  the  fawns  inherit ; 
But  then  her  bonnet's  dazzling  blue 

Gave  hint  of  her  celestial  spirit. 

"  Great  heavens !"  I  cried;  " sweet  sunny  South, 
Your  praise — all  poets  well  may  rhyme  it, 

If  such  bright  flowers  as  yonder  mouth 
Are  native  to  this  glowing  climate  ? 

' '  But  no  ;  this  fresh  and  joyous  face, 
This  eye,  from  which  gay  fancy  sallies, 

This  artless  and  yet  winning  grace 
All  speak  of  Northern  hills  and  valleys. 

' '  The  languid  beauties  hereaway, 

Who  half  the  year  for  cool  air  stifle, 
Their  features  lack  the  subtle  play 
'  Which  leaves  this  face  without  a  rival. " 

And  thus  I  thought,  and  thus  I  dreamed, 
Your  life  in  various  colors  painting ; 

Now  Hope's  blest  ray  upon  me  beamed, 
Now  left  me  in  the  darkness  fainting. 

Ah  !  well,  these  dreams  are  idle  all — 
Mere  shadows— and  we  chase  them  blindly  ; 

But  yet  my  pulses  rise  or  fall 
Just  as  I  find  you  cross  or  kindly. 

And  still  on  memory's  retina  glows 

Thy  picture,  heart  and  brain  entrancing  ; 

The  rosy  mouth — the  brow-t)f  snow, 

And  those  small  feet  just  made  for  dancing. 

Ne'er  may  the  future  bring  regret 

For  these  bright  dreams  which  now  caress  me, 
But,  long  in  golden  circle  set, 

May  this  fair  image  smile  to  bless  me. 


BARON  RENFREW'S  BALL.29 

'Twas  a  grand  display  was  the  prince's  ball, 
A  pageant  or  fete,  or  what  you  may  call 

A  brilliant  coruscation, 
Where  ladies  and  knights  of  noble  worth 
Enchanted  a  prince  of  royal  birth 

By  a  royal  demonstration. 


160  '   The  Poetical  Works  of 


Like  queens  arrayed  in  their  regal  guise, 
They  charmed  the  prince  with  dazzling  eyes, 

Fair  ladies  of  rank  and  station,  * 
Till  the  floor  gave  way,  and  down  they  sprawled. 
In  a  tableaux  style,  which  the  artists  called 

A  floor-all  decoration. 

At  the  prince's  feet  like  flowers  they  were  laid, 
In  the  brightest  bouquet  ever  made, 

For  a  prince's  choice  to  falter — 
Perplexed  to  find,  where  all  were  rare, 
Which  was  the  fairest  of  the  fair 

To  cull  for  a  queenly  altar. 

But  soon  the  floor  was  set  aright, 
And  Peter  Cooper's  face  grew  bright, 

When,  like  the  swell  of  an  organ, 
All  hearts  beat  time  to  the  first  quadrille, 
And  the  prince  confessed  to  a  joyous  thrill 

As  he  danced  with  Mrs.  Morgan. 

Then  came  the  waltz — the  Prince's  Own — 
And  every  bar  and  brilliant  tone 

Had  music's  sweetest  grace  on  ; 
But  the  prince  himself  ne'er  felt  its  charm 
Till  he  slightly  clasped,  with  circling  arm, 

That  lovely  girl,  Miss  Mason. 

But  ah !  the  work  went  bravely  on, 
And  meek-eyed  Peace  a  trophy  won 

By  the  magic  art  of  the  dancers ; 
For  the  daring  prince's  next  exploit 
Was  to  league  with  Scott's  Camilla  Hoyt, 

And  overcome  the  Lancers. 

Besides  these  three,  he  deigned  to  yield 
His  hand  to  Mrs.  M.  B.  Field, 

Miss  Jay,  and  Miss  Van  Buren  ; 
Miss  Russell,  too,  was  given  a  place — 
All  beauties  famous  for  their  grace 

From  Texas  to  Lake  Huron. 

With  Mrs.  Kernochan  he  "lanced," 
With  Mrs.  Edward  Cooper  danced, 

With  Mrs.  Belmont  capered  ; 
With  fair  Miss  Fish,  in  fairy  rig, 
He  tripped  a  sort  of  royal  jig, 

And  next  Miss  Butler  favored. 


Charles  Graham  Halpine.  161 


And  thus,  'mid  many  hopes  and  fears, 
By  the  brilliant  light  of  the  chandeliers, 

Did  they  gayly  quaff  and  revel ; 
Well  pleased  to  charm  a  royal  prince — 
The  only  one  from  old  England  since 

George  Washington  was  a  rehel. 

And  so  the  fleeting  hours  went  by, 

And  watches  stopped — lest  Time  should  fly — 

Or  that  they  winding  wanted ; 
Old  matrons  dozed,  and  papas  smiled, 
And  many  a  fair  one  was  beguiled 

As  the  prince  danced  on,  undaunted. 

'Tis  now  a  dream — the  prince's  ball, 
Its  vanished  glories,  one  and  all, 

The  scenes  of  the  fairy  tales ; 
For  Cinderella  herself  was  there, 
And  Barnum  keeps  for  trial  fair 
The  beautiful  slipper  deposited  there 

By  his  highness  the  Prince  of  Wales. 


THE  CRUSADER  SONG. 

FROM   THE  RUSSIAN. 

Before  the  holy  image 

I  thrice  have  bent  to-night, 
And,  having  paid  my  orisons, 

Now  rush  to  join  the  fight ; 
The  fight  of  faith  and  fatherland, 

For  this  I  rush  afar — 
My  life  and  lance  for  Russia, 

My  fealty  to  the  Czar. 

My  sword — the  only  heritage 

My  valiant  fathers  left, 
Hath  bit  the  flesh  o;  Sweden, 

And  many  a  Tartar  cleft. 
Too  long  in  shameful  idleness 

The  rusting  blade  hath  lain, 
And  now  it  longs  for  blood  to  cleanse 

The  dull,  corroding  stain. 

From  the  summit  of  the  Balkan 
Our  brethren  stretch  their  hands ; 

They  pray  to  us  to  rescue  them — 

Their  prayers  become  commands. 
11 


The  Poetical  Works  of 


We  feel  for  them,  we'll  fight  for  them, 
For  God  and  us  tjiey  bleed ; 

The  weaponed  strength  of  Russia  goes 
To  strike  for  Russia's  creed. 

The  memories  of  our  Church  are  twinecl 

Round  Kiew's  white-bastion ed  crest, 
The  loveliest  and  the  brightest  town 

That  ever  Turk  oppressed. 
Those  memories  are  consecrate, 

And  shadow  forth  the  doom 
Which  gathers  strength  in  silence, 

And  will  quickly  burst  in  gloom. 

The  cross  of  pain,  the  spear  of  might, 

On  these  our  strength  we  cast ; 
The  hand  of  God  protected  both 

In  ages  long  o'erpast ; 
Think  you  our  hearts  so  soon  forget 

The  sires  for  whom  we  mourn  ? 
Their  sons  shall  bear  the  flag  of  faith 

As  it  by  them  was  borne. 

We  go  to  break  the  Moslem's  pride, 

To  crush  his  creed  accursed ; 
Then  welcome  be  the  Holy  War, 

And  let  its  tempest  burst. 
Be  this  our  victor  battle-cry 

As  east  and  south  we  press — 
"The  God  that  blesses  Russia, 

And  the  Czar  the  Russians  bless !" 


SONG:  PHILANTHROPIC  AND  PIRATICAL. 

We've  borne  too  Ipng  the  idiot  wrong  of  Cuba's  tyrant  masters, 
And  tamely  ta'en  from  shattered  Spain  dishonors  and  disasters. 
The  camel's  back  at  length  will  crack — nor  are  we  like  dumb  cattle  : 
Our  patient  strength  has  failed  at  length — peace  only  comes  by  battle. 
Ring  out  the  bells !  our  banner  SAvells,  in  Freedom's  breezes  blowing  ; 
To  arms  and  up !  this  bitter  cup  is  filled  to  overflowing. 

Nor  pray  nor  speak,  but  let  us  seek  redress  in  tones  of  thunder  ; 
They  slew  our  brave  who  went  to  save  the  land  they  rob  and  plunder. 
Around  the  Moro's  grim  fa$ade  the  soul  of  Lopez  wanders, 
And  Crittenden — a  glorious  shade — beside  him  walks  and  ponders. 
O  God  of  Peace!  that  such  as  these  like  dogs  should  be  garroted — 
Choked  out  of  life  by  Spanish  beasts — fierce,  bloody,  and  besotted. 


Charles  Graham  Halpine.  163 


To  arms  and  up !  we  brim  the  cup  to  vengeance  and  to  glory ! 
By  Western  zeal  let  "Old  Castile"  be  taught  a  different  story  ; 
Let  Spanish  Dons  now  learn  for  once  how  great  the  power  they've 

slighted ; 
By  guns  and  swords,  not  pens  and  words,  must  Cuba's  wrongs  be 

righted. 
They've  chained  our  men,  they've  seized  our  ships,  their  yoke  around 

us  twining ; 
Our  "stars" are  in  a  long  eclipse — we'll  bring  them  forth  more  shining. 

What  pulsing  starts  from  youthful  hearts  to  hear  the  tocsin  pealing ! 
Their  glittering  eyes,  their  fierce  replies,  betray  the  inward  feeling — 
The  hidden  thirst  of  vengeance,  nursed  through  years  of  mute  re 
straining. 

Hurra !  that  torrent  forth  has  burst,  no  more  in  meek"  complaining. 
The  "One  Lone  Star"  shall  not  be  far  from  our  immortal  cluster ; 
The  Southern  Queen  shall  soon  be  seen  arrayed  in  Western  lustre. 

Then,  brethren,  up !  one  parting  cup  to  Washington  and  Jackson  ; 
Our  sprouting  tree  of  liberty  no  Spaniard  lays  an  axe  on. 
By  Freedom's  God  !  our  lavish  blood  #hall  water  it  to  blossom  ; 
No  foul  garrote  shall  press  our  throat,  though  balls  may  pierce  our 

bosom. 

King  out  the  bells !  our  banner  swells,  in  Freedom's  breezes  blowing ; 
To  arms  and  up !  this  bitter  cup  is  filled  to  overflowing. 


A  WALL  STREET  USURER  ON  RUSTIC  BLISS. 

SECOND  OI)E — FIFTH   BOOK  OF  HOEACE. 

"Beatus  ille  qui  procul  negotiis." 

He  is  bless'd  who,  far  from  city  toil, 

As  those  who  lived  in  elder  time, 
Furrows  his  own  paternal  soil, 

Unstained  of  all  usurious  crime. 
The  trumpet's  voice  he  will  not  heed, 

Nor  billows  raging  fierce  and  loud ; 
He  shuns  the  bar  where  suitors  plead, 

He  shuns  the  portals  of  the  proud. 

Around  the  poplar's  lofty  tops 

He  twines  the  creepers  of  the  vine, 
Or  with  his  pruning  sickle  lops 

The  boughs  that  yield  no  generous  wine ; 
Or  in  the  lonely  valley  sees 

His  herds  of  cattle  wandering  far, 
Or  stores  the  honey  of  his  bees 

In  chestnut  bowl  and  crystal  jar. 


164  The  Poetical  Works  of 


Or  shears  his  sheep,  or,  in  the  hours 

When  her  bright  brow  old  Autumn  rears, 
Adorned  with  mellow  fruits  and  flowers, 

How  gladly  will  he  pluck  the  pears, 
And  the  rich,  gushing  grape,  that  vies 

With  purple,  as  a  gift  and  charm 
To  those  benignant  deities 

Who  guard  from  blight  his  little  farm. 

He  sleeps  beneath  some  aged  oak, 

Or  in  the  tangled  meadow  lies, 
While  waters  leap  from  rock  to  rock, 

And  woodland  song-birds  fill  the  skies, 
And  fountains  flow  with  murmuring  streams, 

"Inviting  sleep  and  blissful  dreams. 

But  when  old  Winter,  grim  and  hoar, 

With  rain  and  snow  o'erfloods  the  soil, 
With  dogs  he  hunts  the  savage  boar 

Into  his  interwoven  toil ; 
The  hungry  thrush  may  vainly  seek 

To  shun  his  net ;  fb.e  timorous  hare, 
And  the  wild  crane,  whose  pinions  seek 

A  foreign  clime,  reward  his  care. 

Amid  such  tranquil  sports  as  these 

We  might  forget — oh !  blissful  rest — 
Those  harassing  anxieties 

Which  love  entails  on  every  breast. 
Children,  a  wife  to  tend  the  house 

(Such  as  the  Sabine  mothers  give), 
A  sunburnt  and  industrious  spouse — 

Even  such  in  old  Apulia  live — 
Who  piles  the  hallowed  hearth  on  high 
With  blazing  fagots,  bright  and  dry, 
As  home  her  weary  husband  turns 
To  where  the  cottage  beacon  burns. 
In  wicker  "sheds  she  shuts  the  kine, 

Their  milk  delicious  to  the  taste, 
And,  drawing  forth  her  finest  wine, 

Prepares  the  unbought  and  temperate  feast. 

Oh !  not  the  richest  feast  that  e'er 

For  king  was  spread  could  please  me  more ; 
Nor  dainty  fishes,  sweet  and  rare, 

Nor  pheasants  brought  from  India's  shore  ; 
Not  all  the  banquet  wealth  allows 

A  keener  relish  could  attain 
Than  olives  gathered  from  the  boughs, 

And  sorrel  growing  on  the  plain, 


Charles  Graham  Halpine.  165 


Or  mallows — food  of  all  the  best 
To  keep  us  free  from  inward  harm  ; 

Or  the  young  lamb,  with  which  I  feast 
The  guardian  god  who  shields  my  farm. 

In  such  a  life,  how  sweet  to  see 

The  well-fed  sheep  returning  home, 
And  weary  oxen,  droopingly, 

With  an  inverted  ploughshare  come, 
While  numerous  laborers  join  their  mirth 

Around  our  happy  household  hearth. 
The  usurer  Alpheus,  sick  of  gain, 

To  turn  a  country  farmer  bent, 
Thus  sang  the  pleasures  of  the  plain, 

And  vowed  to  quit  his  cent  per  cent ; 
But  Avarice  comes — the  sweet  dream  flies, 
And  back  once  more  to  Rome  the  veteran  usurer 


LETTER  FROM  JOHN  BULL,  ESQ.,  TO  JEREMIAH  SLY, 
ESQ.,  COTTON  BROKER,  NEW  YORK. 

We  are  fighting  for  the  Turks,  Jerry  Sly,  Jerry  Sly ; 
We  are  fighting  for  the  Turks,  Jerry  Sly ; 

We  are  fighting  for  the  Turks, 

And  bombarding  Russian  works, 
But  a  hidden  purpose  lurks  in  our  eye,  Jerry  Sly — 
Yes,  a  hidden  purpose  lurks  in  our  eye. 

If  the  Turks  were  let  alone,  Jerry  Sly,  Jerry  Sly ; 

If  the  Turks  were  let  alone,  Jerry  Sly,  , 

Where  were  Franky  Joseph's  throne  ? 

Wouldn't  Hungary  have  her  own  ? 

And  would  Poland  longer  groan  in  her  chains,  Jerry  Sly  ? 
And  would  Poland  hopeless  groan  in  her  chains  ? 

Wouldn't  Italy  be  up,  Jerry  Sly,  Jerry  Sly  ? 
Wouldn't  Italy  be  up,  Jerry  Sly? 

Where  would  revolution  stop  ? 

'Tis  a  hydra-headed  crop  ; 

Into  England  it  might  pop,  as  you  know,  Jerry  Sly, 
And  the  queen  would  have  to  hop,  as  you  know. 

For  a  week  or  something  more,  Jerry  Sly,  Jerry  Sly  ; 
For  a  week  or  something  more,  Jerry  Sly, 

We  heard  the  cannon  roar 

All  along  Silistria's  shore, 

But  no  volley  did  we  pour  for  the  Turks,  Jerry  Sly  ? 
But  we  hoped  that  all  was  o'er  with  the  Turks. 


166  The  Poetical  Works  of 


Oh !  we  helped  the  Turks  a  deal,  Jerry  Sly,  Jerry  Sly ; 
Aberdeen  declares  a  deal,  Jerry  Sly ; 

We  held  back  their  "headlong  zeal," 

Gave  the  Cossacks  time  to  heal 
The  bites  of  Turkish  steel,  as  you  know,  Jerry  Sly ; 
'Tis  a  dangerous  thing  is  zeal,  as  you  know. 

The  Crimea  we  will  take,  Jerry  Sly,  Jerry  Sly, 
When  the  Russ  is  not  awake,  Jerry  Sly ; 

And  the  Baltic  we  will  make 

Just  a  little  English  lake, 

Where  the  queen  a  cruise  can  take,  with  her  spouse,  Jerry  Sly 
(Lord  of  heaven,  some  pity  take  on  her  spouse!) 

Thus  we're  fighting  for  the  Turks,  Jerry  Sly,  Jerry  Sly ; 
To  the  Turks  we  give  our  aid,  Jerry  Sly,  Jerry  Sly ; 
To  the  Turks  such  precious  aid,  Jerry  Sly, 

That  their  soldiers  we  delayed, 

Beating  back  the  Russian  raid, 

While  long  protocols  we  made — they're  in  print — Jerry  Sly ; 
No  one  reads  them,  I'm  afraid,  though  in  print. 

Then  we  sent  them  Lord  Dundas,  Jerry  Sly,  Jerry  Sly  ; 
Sent  them  Admiral  Dundas,  Jerry  Sly, 

Saying,  "  Let  the  Russians  pass !" 

(He's  a  hoary,  driveling  ass, 

Who,  unless  the  sea  were  glass,  wouldn't  budge,  Jerry  Sly.) 
So  Sinope  came  to  pass,  as  we  judge. 

As  Sebastopol  was  strong,  Jerry  Sly,  Jerry  Sly, 
And  we  hate  to  fight  the  strong,  Jerry  Sly, 

We  did  with  coward  wrong 

To  unarmed  Odessa  throng — 

By  the  rules  of  war  'twas  wrong,  as  is  said,  Jerry  Sly — 
But  her  courage  made  her  strong :  so  we  fled. 

Thus  we're  fighting  for  the  Turks,  Jerry  Sly ; 

We  are  fighting  for  the  Turks, 

And  bombarding  Russian  works, 
But  a  hidden  purpose  lurks  in  our  eye,  Jerry  Sly — 
A  most  sinister  purpose  lurks  in  our  eye. 


THE  AUTHOR'S  RITUAL. 

Who'er  would  desire  to  write  a  book 
In  days  of  such  severe  morality, 

Let  him  even  upon  this  precept  look : 

That  to  tell  the  truth  is  a  plump  rascality. 


Charles  Graham  Halpine.  167 


The  world  so  virtuous  now  has  grown 
That  cant  is  the  only  way  of  wooing  it, 

The  dog  don't  object  to  steal  the  bone, 

But  barks  when  he's  righteously  kicked  for  doing  it. 

If  to  please  the  crowd  you  only  write, 

Declare  that  your  readers  are  all  seraphim ; 
That  this  is  the  only  age  of  light, 

And  that  all  before  with  guilt  were  very  dim. 
Declare  that  if  ever  the  angels  trod 

A  sinless  earth,  they  now  are  treading  it ; 
That  your  fathers  deserved  the  wrath  of  God, 

And  you  wonder  he  took  so  long  in  shedding  it ; 

But  that,  now  the  world  is  filled  with  saints, 

Your  strongest  praise  than  their  worth  is  fainter  ; 
The  brighter  each  portrait  the  artist  paints, 

Why,  the  more  the  painted  applaud  the  painter. 
In  fact,  'tis  the  readiest  thing  on  earth 

To  win  your  way  by  fulsome  flattery ; 
But  make  of  a  foible  of  vice  your  mirth, 

And  its  friends  indict  you  for  tort  and  battery. 

Declare  that  each  woman  is  now  as  pure 

As  the  new-fallen  snow  on  the  Himalayas  ; 
That  never  did  queen  with  more  regal  mien 

Or  dignified  footstep  skim  a  dais ; 
Declare  that  the  moon  and  each  starry  world 

Grows  dim  in  the  blaze  of  her  eyes'  full  lustre — 
That  the  tendril  vine  has  more  neatly  curled 

Since  it  borrowed  the  grace  of  her  ringlet's  cluster. 

Declare  to  the  men  they  are  brave  and  just, 

Fulfilling  in  peace  each  ordination — 
That  they  never  are  plagued  with  wine  or  lust, 

Nor  find  in  mammon  the  least  temptation  ; 
Declare  that  each  man  who  pretends  to  faith 

Devoutly  feels  what  his  tongue  professes ; 
That  truth  gives  her  sanction  to  all  he  saith. 

And  that  virtue  his  every  action  blesses. 

In  short,  if  you  will  but  tell  lies  enough, 

Giving  each  grown  babe  his  toy  of  coral, 
You  may  sell  a  heap  of  the  baldest  stuff 

That  ever  a  parson  dubbed  as  "moral!" 
To  "  hold  up  the  mirror"  is  not  your  part — 

The  likeness  then  would  be  far  too  real ; 
The  world  from  its  own  foul  face  would  start — 

You  must  give  it  a  rainbow-hued  ideal. 


168  The  Poetical  Works  of 


THE  OLD  BACHELOK'S  NEW  YEAR. 

Oh,  the  spring  hath  less  of  brightness 

Every  year, 
And  the  snow  a  ghastlier  whiteness 

Every  year ; 

Nor  do  summer  blossoms  quicken, 
Nor  does  autumn  fruitage  thicken 
As  it  did — the  seasons  sicken 

Every  year. 

It  is  growing  cold  and  colder 

Every  year, 
And  I  feel  that  I  am  older 

Every  year ; 

And  my  limbs  are  less  elastic, 
And  my  fancy  not  so  plastic — 
Yea,  my  habits  grow  monastic 

Every  year. 

'Tis  becoming  bleak  and  bleaker 

Every  year, 
And  my  hopes  are  waxing  weaker 

Every  year ; 

Care  I  now  for  merry  dancing, 
Or  for  eyes  with  passion  glancing  ? 
Love  is  less  and  less  entrancing 

Every  year. 

Oh,  the  days  that  I  have  squandered 

Every  year, 
And  the  friendships  rudely  sundered  , 

Every  year ; 

Of  the  ties  that  might  have  twined  me, 
Until  time  to  death  resigned  me, 
My  infirmities  remind  me 

Every  year. 

Sad  and  sad  to  look  before  us 

Every  year, 
With  a  heavier  shadow  o'er  us 

Every  year ; 

To  behold  each  blossom  faded, 
And  to  know  we  might  have  made  it 
An  immortal  garland,  braided 

Kound  the  year. 


Charles  Graham  Halpine.  169 


Many  a  spectral,  beckoning  finger, 

Year  by  year, 
Chides  me  that  so  long  I  linger,    \ 

Year  by  year ; 

Every  early  comrade  sleeping 
In  the  church-yard,  whither,  weeping, 
I — alone  unwept — am  creeping 

Year  by  year. 


IN  MEMORIAM. 

QUEEN  VAEIETY — A   SKETCH   FKOM   LIFE. 

A  summer  twilight,  soft,  serene, 

When — led  by  one,  her  earliest  vassal — 

The  poet  first  beheld  the  queen 
Of  many  hearts  and  Carbon  Castle. 

An  oval  face,  the  eyes  as  clear 

As  star-gleams  on  a  fountain  dashing ; 

The  brows  where  pleasant  thoughts  appear 
Forever  varied,  changing,  flashing. 

A  wealth  of  beauty  seldom  seen, 
A  regal  grace  of  form  and  gesture ; 

And — as  might  well  befit  a  queen — 
Some  silken  opulence  of  vesture. 

A  queen  by  right  of  power  to  reign, 

Her  sceptre  hid  in  flowers  that  wreathe  it, 

For  crown  a  royalty  of  brain, 

With  a  true  woman's  heart  beneath  it. 

Eyes  black  and  luminous,  searching  out 
The  very  soul's  recondite  essence ; 

And  ease  which  sets  at  ease  all  doubt, 
Even  of  the  timid,  in  her  presence. 

Oh,  armory  of  a  woman's  wit, 

With  side-arm  smiles  from  floor  to  rafter, 
I've  seen  a  thousand  facts  submit 

Before  her  fire  of  Minie  laughter. 

Sweet  laughter,  silvery  as  the  strain 

Which  the  lark  sings  when  heavenward  going 

Prismatic  bubbles  of  the  brain 
In  currents  musical  outflowing. 
II 


170  The  Poetical  Works  of 


Ah  me !  the  long,  calm  summer  eve, 
The  dusky  twilight  closing  round  us  ; 

The  porch  wherein  her  words  did  weave 
New  meshes  to  the  net  that  bound  us. 

The  very  breezes  seemed  to  move 
On  tiptoe,  dallying  with  her  graces ; 

The  fountains  in  the  dark  alcove 

Shot  starward  up  with  listening  faces. 

She  sings — and  not  the  oriole's  throat 
Pours  flusher  music  summer  mornings  ; 

Each  gesture  of  the  hand  or  foot 

Is  instinct  with  most  subtle  warnings.  ' 

A  garland  from  Titania's  bower, 

Where  twice  the  same  leaves  never  enter, 

Save  only  one  unvarying  flower — 
The  rose  of  kindness  in  the  centre. 

A  crown  of  jewels  or  a  ring  . 

In  different  lights  each  moment  changing ; 
A  fancy  ever  on  the  wing, 

To  novel  scenes  and  topics  ranging. 

The  fairy  rooms,  the  glittering  queen, 
The  many  splendors  scattered  round  us ; 

The  rich  good  taste  which  ruled,  I  ween, 
Where  that  sweet  summer  evening  found  us. 

The  ebony  casket  of  cigars — 

On  each  brown  tube  a  memory  lingers  ; 
That. night  beneath  the  watching  stars 

No  sweeter  contrast  to  white  fingers. 

Peace  to  that  casket  I  have  said, 

And  peace  be  with  the  golden-throttled 

Small  flasks  in  which  lay  iced  and  hid 
The  sun-wines  they  are  dust  who  bottled. 

The  echoes  floating,  fluttering  yet, 

From  all  dear  nooks  of  memory  starting ; 

The  talisman — "We  once  have  met 
And  parted,  neither  glad  for  parting :" 

No  cloud  this  halcyon  memory  screen, 
.Raze  rather  all  that  leads  or  follows ; 

And  let  this  evening  with  our  queen 
Be  still  her  faithful  vassal's  solace. 


Charles  Graham  If  alpine.  171 


SECOND  BOOK  OF  HORACE,  SIXTEENTH  ODE. 

FREELY  TRANSLATED  BY  CHARLES  BBOADBENT. 

TO  WIDESWAKTH. 

Wideswarth,  the  man  who  sails  on  the  wide  ocean 
When  a  dark  tempest  has  obscured  the  moon, 

And  not  a  star  shines  through  the  fierce  commotion 
Of  warring  clouds  along  the  horizon  strewn — 

No  ligh.t  to  guide  his  vessel — will  he  cease 

To  ask  of  heaven  the  one  great  boon  of  peace  ?„  - 

Thrace  prays  for  peace  when  her  wild  lances  shiver 
Amid  the  shock  of  battle,  and  for  peace 

The  Mede,  whose  shoulders  wear  the  graceful  quiver, 
Prays  to  the  gods — but  it  is  not  for  these ; 

Not  by  rich  gems  the  treasure  can  be  bought, 

Gold  crowns  and  purple  can  affect  it  not. 

'Tis  not  in  ancient  pride  or  regal  treasure 
To  win  us  rest ;  nor  can  the  arm  of  law 

Eject  grim  care  from  the  abode  of  pleasure, 
Nor  bid  it  from  the  inmost  heart  withdraw ; 

Around  the  gilded  roof  grief  wings  its  flight, 

Even  like  an  owl  amid  the  noonday  light. 

The  man  has  peace  who,  happy  on  a  little, 
Sits  down  contented  to  his  frugal  board ; 

Who  knows  and  feels  that  Fortune's  gifts  are  brittle, 
Nor  like  a  miser  seeks  to  swell  his  hoard ; 

Him  neither  care  nor  avarice  will  keep 

From  days  of  joy  and  nights  of  gentle  sleep. 

Why  do  we  change  our  country  for  another, 
That  glows  perchance  beneath  a  brighter  sun  ? 

Can  we  escape  ourselves,  or  can  we  smother 
The  griefs  that  with  us  o'er  the  wide  earth  run  ? 

Swift  as  the  stag,  and  with  the  whirlwind's  force, 

They  climb  the  ship,  and  ride  beside  the  horse. 

A  mind  well  based  ne'er  questions  of  the  morrow — 
It  feels  the  present,  and  enjoys  the  hour ; 

Nor  asks  the  future  for  its  share  of  sorrow — 

'Twill  come  one  day,  and  we  must  bide  its  power. 

Even  then  a  smile  will  gild  the  gloomy  strife, 

And  mingle  sweetness  in  the  cup  of  life. 


172  The  Poetical  Works  of 

Fate  snatched  away  Achilles  ere  his  glory 
In  its  meridian  brilliancy  had  shone ; 

Tithonus  wept  that  he  grew  old  and  hoary, 

And  lived,  though  all  that  he  hath  loved  were  gone ; 

And  Time  with  partial  hand  may  give  to  me 

Some  joy  or  hope  that  it  denied  to  thee. 

A  hundred  flocks  bleat  round  your  happy  dwelling, 
Sicilian  heifers  low,  and  horses  neigh ; 

Rich  purple  robes,  of  costly  odors  smelling, 
Enwrap  you  round ;  while  on  my  humble  way 

Fate  hath  bestowed  a  smaller  'state — some  wit, 

And  a  contempt  for  those  who  laugh  at  it. 


A  BLOOMER  LYRIC, 

"MOST  MUSICAL,  MOST  MELANCHOLY." 

Oh,  ladies,  list  the  ditty  sung — 

A  doleful  ditty,  very — 
About  a  Bloomer  fair  and  young — 

They  called  her  Mrs.  Perry ; 
Who,  quite  regardless  of  the  law, 

Did  leave  her  spouse — oh,  heavens ! 
She  wore  the  pants,  and  panted  for 

The  lawless  love  of  Levins. 

Bow,  wow,  wow. 

In  Monson,  Mass.,  the  luckless  spouse 

(Made  lucky  by  the  riddance) 
Proprieted  a  virtuous  house 

(That  is  to  say,  he  did  once)  ; 
But  Levins  dough,  with  brass  enough 

To  make  a  copper  kettle, 
On  Mrs.  P.  (ah  !  woe  is  me !) 

His  lewd  regard  did  settle. 

Bow,  wow,  wow. 

And  she  did  say  unto  herself, 

"  Shall  I,  the  slave  of  duty, 
Be  laid  upon  the  matron  shelf 

To  waste  away  my  beauty  ? 
No,  no.     Henceforth  I  bear  command, 

Though  prim  Miss  Prudence  quarrels  ; 
I've  worn  my  husband's  breeches,  and 

I'll  make  a  breach  of  morals." 

Bow,  wow,  wow. 


Charles  Graham  Halpine.  173 


So,  like  a  ' '  high,  strong-minded  wife, '' 

She  told  him  her  intention, 
Prepared  to  face  his  jealous  strife 

Against  her  vow's  infraction  ; 
But  he  (oh !  what  a  brute  is  man !) 

Cried,  "  If  we  may  be  sundered — 
I'm  very  poor — but  yet  I  can 

Afford  to  pay  a  hundred."  t 

Bow,  wow,  wow. 

So  let  us  drink  to  Mr.  P. 

Both  in  Champagne  and  Sherry — 
May  each  be-Bloomered  husband  be 

As  fortunate  as  Perry. 
And  may  the  naughty  girls,  who  wear 

The  manly  pants  and  braces, 
Ne'er  be  embraced  by  manly  arms, 

Nor  kissed  by  bearded  faces. 

Bow,  wow,  wow. 

And  here's  a  glass  to  Mrs.  P. — 

A  full-fledged  Bloomer,  very — 
Who  found  a  way  at  least  to  make 

Her  doleful  husband  merry. 
And  may  all  wives,  who  lead  their  lives 

At  sixes  and  at  sevens, 
Exchange  a  husband's  honest  love 

For  such  a  scamp  as  Levins. 

Bow,  wow,  wow. 


NEW  YORK  CRYSTAL  PALACE. 

Ye  wha  direct  the  Exhibition, 
An'  manage  a'  things  wi'  precision, 
Mock  na  a  simple  bard's  petition, 

Wha's  pouch  is  bare, 
An'  yet  wad  like  to  feast  his  vision 

On  yon  big  fair. 

'Tis  true  I'm  but  a  poortith  wight. 
Come  here  to  wrastle  and  to  fight 
For  roof  an'  hearth,  claes  an'  bite ; 

My  voice  is  sma', 
But  no  afeard  to  crack  the  right 

Afore  ye  a'. 


174  The  Poetical  Works  of 


Though  fifty  cents  be  sma'  to  you, 
A  mere  card-counter,  like  eneugh, 
There's  mony  an  honest  lad  wad  rue 

That  sma'  amount ; 
His  bairns'  bellies  maun  be  fu', 

An'  trifles  count. 

If  yours  were  like  a  kintra  show, 
To  which  but  aince  we  speer  to  go, 
Your  bonnie  charge,  though  far  frae  low, 

I  wad  na  shun  ; 
I'd  in,  an'  tak  the  foremost  row, 

An'  see  the  fun. 

But  yours  is  nae  sic  feckless  play 
That  ane  can  ken  it  in  a  day, 
Unless,  in  a  bewildered  way, 

He  gapes  an'  glowers  ; 
Sic  wark  demands  an'  wad  repay 

Saxscore  o'  hours. 

An'  how,  I  ask,  can  chiels  afford, 
Wha's  gains  are  sma'.an'  labor  hard, 
A  muckle  sum  that  should  be  shared 

Wi'  his  wee  bodies  ? 
I'm  feared  they'd  lack  for  bed  an'  board, 

An'  shoes  an'  duddies. 

Forbye,  in  an  industrial  tilt, 
Though  ither  flags  be  bonnier  gilt, 
Wha's  banner  should  gang  first  in  till't 

Unless  o'  those 
'  Wha's  joints  hae  crack'd,  wha's  sweat  was  spilt 

Afore  it  rose  ? 

What  hae  the  rich,  the  dizzen'd  crowd, 
In  a'  the  place  to  mak  them  proud  ? 
They've  neither  welded,  wove,  nor  plow'd, 

Nor  blear'd  their  een,  % 

Whyles  Labor  may  proclaim  aloud, 

"  The  show  is  mine !" 

"Frae  deep  foundation  e'en  to  dome, 

The  glitt'rin'  aisles  through  which  you  roam, 

The  gallery  that,  light  as  foam, 

O'er  a'  expands, 
The  palace  an'  its  treasures  come 

Frae  these  rough  hands." 


Charles  Graham  Ualpine.  175 


Let  Sedgwick  now — a  sonsy  man — 

Tell  the  directors  o'  his  plan, 

An'  say,  "  Though  wrangly  we  began, 

'Tis  time  to  truckle ; 
A  thousand  mickle  soon  outrun 

The  fivescore  muckle." 

Here  folk  frae  ilka  clime  are  met— 
A  wae-disposed,  monarchic  set — 
A'  peerin'  roun',  if  they  can  get 

(Lang  may  they  need  then. ! ) 
Some  proofs  to  say  that  "  Labor  yet 

Wins  nocht  frae  Freedom." 

Ye  may  despise  us  an'  ye  will, 

But  we're  the  els  maun  foot  your  bill ; 

The  "  Upper  Ten''  hae  looked  their  fill, 

An',  should  you  flout  us, 
I'm  feared  yell  hae  an  empty  till 

At  least  without  us. 

An'  what  for  no  should  we  na  win, 
Some  points  demand  it  out  an'  in  ? 
The  slummocks  o'  us  workin'  men 

Are  easy  snarlin', 
But  ower  the  whirligig  we  grin 

Like  Sternie's  starlin'. 

Let  Sedgwick  tak  anither  thought : 
Kickshaws  to  labor's  wame  are  naught, 
Nor  can  we  pay  the  prices  sought 

By  those  bright  lasses 
Frae  whom  mysel',  yestreen,  I  bought     . 

Twa  jelly  glasses. 

Dupont  an'  Davis — soldiers  baith — 

I  swear  till  ye,  upon  my  aith, 

That,  though  ye  aft  hae  grappled  death 

Wi'  sabres  carvin', 
Ye  wadna  bide  the  risin'  wrath 

O'  downright  starvin'. 

I'm  done  ;  nor  care  I  now  a  flea 

If  high  or  low  you  gar  it  be  ; 

But  this  I  swear,  nae  doit  frae  me 

Your  nieves  shall  mortar, 
Till  into  your  big  house  the  key 

Is  "Cash — one  quarter/' 


176  The  Poetical  Works  of 


THE  EVERGLADES  WITHDRAW. 

SENATORS  YULEE  AND  MALLORY   TAKING  LEAVE. 

As  they  rose  to  take  their  leave 

Of  the  old  familiar  hall, 
Their  manly  sides  did  heave 

In  the  bitterness  of  gall ; 
'Twas  a  sad  and  gloomy  hour 

To  men  so  framed  as  they, 
For,  besides  their  loss  of  place  and  power, 

They  also  lost  their  pay ; 
Yes,  besides  their  loss  of  place  and  power, 

They  also  lost  their  pay. 

As  they  view  the  frescoed  hall, 

Still  loth  to  quit  their  mates, 
In  the  filtered  beams  that  fall 

Through  the  blazoned  shields  of  state, 
Though  no  argument  for  love 

Of  our  common  flag  they  sought, 
Yet  the  sunlight  streaming  from  above 

This  Union  lesson  taught — 
Yea,  the  blessed  sunlight  from  above 

This  Union  lesson  taught : 

"As  the  sun,  supreme  and  bright, 

Shining  equally  on  all, 
Poureth  down  a  common  light 

On  this  crystal-covered  hall, 
So  our  Union — orb  of  orbs — 
.  Sheds  a  glory  fixed  and  true, 
Though  the  shield  of  every  state  absorbs 

Some  beams  of  different  hue ; 
Though  the  shield  of  every  state  absorbs 

Some  beams  of  varied  hue. 

"  Would  you  tear  the  temple  down, 

Change  our  blessing  to  a  bane, 
And  pluck  from  nationhood  the  crown 

It  cost  so  much  to  gain  ? 
If  no  inner  voice  upbraids, 

If  no  patriot  promptings  warn, 
Back  to  your  swamps  and  everglades 

Where  alligators  swarm — 
Those  Indian-haunted  swamps  and  glades 

Where  alligators  swarm. 


Charles  Graham  If  alpine.  177 


"  We  may  hearken  to  your  call, 

And  take  pity  on  your  fate, 
When  the  monsters  round  you  crawl, 

And  the  red  men  lie  in  wait ; 
Some  relief  we  may  afford — 

But  tempt  us  not  too  far ; 
A  thousand  years  have  not  restored 

The  Pleiads'  wandering  star — 
The  six  bright  sisters  have  ignored 

That  sad,  repentant  star. 

"  Now  go,  if  go  you  must ; 

We  fling  the  portals  wide ; 
Go,  if  you  think  your  quarrel  just, 

And  dare  its  trial  bide ; 
Our  Union's  dome  beneath 

We  miss  no  single  star, 
No  weapons  shall  our  hands  unsheath 

Your  homeward  way  to  bar — 
Twine  for  yourselves  a  separate  wreath, 

And  shine  a  single  star. 

"  Of  many  flowers  and  vines 

In  glittering  contrast,  now 
The  garland  of  the  Union  shines 

On  freedom's  radiant  brow ; 
The  bud  you  gave  take  down, 

But  think  of  this  and  heed — 
To-day  'tis  portion  of  a  crown, 

To-morrow  but  a  weed — 
To-day  'tis  part  of  Freedom's  crown  ; 

Removed— a  worthless  weed. " 


The  two  grew  pale  and  thin, 

And  they  trembled  in  their  shoes  ; 
Yea,  every  inch  of  quivering  skin 

Exuded  icy  dews ; 
But  to  treason  they  were  pledged, 

Though  they  found  the  trial  sore, 
And,  as  nearer  to  the  door  they  edged, 

They  blubbered  more  and  more  ; 
To  Disunion  as  they  nearer  edged, 

Her  features  shocked  them  more. 

At  last  they  fled  away 

Into  darkness— to  their  fate. 

God  speed  them !  we  can  only  pray, 
And  save  them  ere  too  late ; 

12  H  2 


178  The  Poetical  Works  of 


And  God  save  all  the  weak 

Who,  from  some  fancied  wrong, 

Throw  off — not  knowing  what  they  seek- 
The  buckler  of  the  strong — 

The  Union's  bond  to  sever  seek, 
The  buckler  of  the  strong. 


TEN  YEARS  TOO  LATE. 

I  own  thy  beauty  once  did  thrill 

My  every  vein  with  living  fire, 
My  soul  lay  subject  to  thy  will, 

To  kill  with  frowns — with  smiles  inspire ; 
But  passion  calms  its  headlong  tide, 

And  youthful  dreams  will  dimmer  grow 
When  met  with  that  unyielding  pride — 

Such  as  was  yours  ten  years  ago. 

One  heedless  word  can  oft  destroy 

The  hope  to  which  a  soul  is  clinging ; 
The  tender  flower  of  love  and  joy 

Can  brook  no  storm  across  it  winging. 
So,  lady,  let  us  both  forget 

The  thought  'tis  only  pain  to  know, 
And  meet  as  though  we  ne'er  had  met 

In  that  past  life — "  ten  years  ago." 


BIRTH  OF  THE  BATTLE  YEAR. 

OMENS   OF  EIGHTEEN  SIXTY-ONE. 

Gloomy  and  dark  was  the  night,  when  a  Fate 
Clamdred,  and  loudly,  outside  the  gate  : 
' '  Open  and  fling  the  Dead  Year  out — 
Welcome  the  New  with  a  festal  shout ! 
'Tis  a  ruddy  child,  with  dimpled  limbs, 
And  eyes  that  no  care  or  sorrow  dims  ; 
Welcome  it,  then,  with  cheers  and  hymns — 
Welcome  the  young  New  Year !" 

Never  a  laugh  through  the  castle  rang. 
But  the  bolts  shot  back  with  a  heavy  clang ; 
The  flickering  lamps  gave  a  wan  blue  light 
As  the  blast  rushed  in  from  the  sleety  night ; 


Charles  Graham  Halpine.  179 


And  around  the  couch  of  the  dying  year, 
With  faces  reflecting  both  sorrow  and  fear, 
Gathered  the  waiters  from  far  and  near — 

Not  a  smile  for  the  young  New  Year. 

Beneath  black  rafters,  curving  down 
O'er  a  floor  of  black  and  walls  of  brown, 
Stretched  on  a  pallet,  with  struggling  breath, 
The  Old  Year  sought  the  escape  of  death  ; 
While  around  him  stood,  in  a  mute,  sad  ring, 
Many  who  only  had  felt  his  sting, 
But  who  feared  some  more  evil  and  hideous  thing 
In  the  reign  of  the  young  New  Year.' 

"Fling  wide  the  carved  and  ponderous  doorr 
Lift  "him  gently,  and  walk  before, 
Ye  with  the  hoods  and  rods  of  white  ; 
Carry  him  out  into  empty  night ; 
For  the  clock  betokens  the  midnight  hour, 
And  his  death- knell  tolls  in  the  ivied  tower — 
This  moment,  for  weal  or  woe,  to  power 
Ascends  the  young  New  Year. 

"Dark  Fate,  with  clouds  and  shadows  capped, 
In  whose  wide  mantle,  close  enwrapped, 
The  young  New  Year  is  hither  borne, 
Hath  the  world  cause  to  smile  or  mourn  ? 
What  say  the  omens  of  his  reign  ? 
What  do  the  Destinies  ordain — 
Is  it  peace  or  battle,  joy  or  pain  ? 

Speak  for  the  young  New  Year. " 

No  word  the  dark,  mute  Fate  let  fall 
As  tier  shadow  flitted  across  the  wall ; 
But,  bending  over  the  vacant  couch, 
One  moment  she  appeared  to  crouch  ; 
Then,  rising,  towering  higher  and  higher, , 
Seen  by  the  light  of  the  flickering  fire, 
Just  on  her  exit  the  lamps  expire — 

Sad  sign  for  the  young  New  Year. 

"  Trim  the  lights  afresh  till  they  all  burn  bright ; 
Fill  the  wassail  bowl  for  one  festal  night ; 
Burn  larger  logs  till  the  flames  reveal 
Those  shapes  which  the  shadows  now  conceal ; 
Let  the  oldest  flagons  of  wine  be  brought, 
And  the  best  old  stories  our  fathers  taught, 
And  the  songs  that  were  dearest  in  youth  be  sought 
To  welcome  the  young  New  Year." 


180  The  Poetical  Works  of 


i-'o  passed  the  night  in  a  feverish  dream, 
In  pleasures  that  had  a  hectic  gleam  ; 
For  beneath  the  gayest  smile,  thus  forced, 
Cold  tremors  of  terror  thrilled  and  coursed ; 
And  the  groined-roof,  curving  grimly  down 
O'er  a  floor  of  black  and  walls  of  brown, 
Had  a  mystical  threat — a  prophetic  frown — 
As  we  toasted  the  young  New  Year. 

When  morning  dawned  and  the  shadows  fled, 
We  drew  the  curtains,  and  round  the  bed 
All  gathered  to  see  what  the  Fate  had  left 
To  replace  the  Old  Year,  of  life  bereft. 
'Twas  a  sickly  child,  of  a  wan,  pale  face, 
With  many  a  mutter  and  strange  grimace — 
' '  'Tis  a  poor  exchange  we  have  had  in  place 
Of  the  dead  and  gone  Old  Year.'' 

But  let's  make  the  best  of  the  evils  known — 
Let  the  boldest  front  to  the  foe  be  shown  ; 
For  still  in  the  heart  of  the  nation  dwells 
A  pulse  that  true  to  the  Union  swells ; 
And  perhaps  the  omens  we  now  deplore, 
Heralding  carnage  from  shore  to  shore, 
May  be  lessons  merely,  and  nothing  more, 
Designed  for  the  young  New  Year. 

So  bring  the  garlands  and  deck  the  couch, 
Let  the  prophets  of  good  their  faith  avouch  ; 
Let  every  foreboding  of  evil  fade, 
And  the  birth  of  this  ominous  year  be  made 
So  joyous  and  festive,  with  song  and  wine, 
That,  even  though  4coming  with  ill  design, 
The  purpose'  of  wrong  it  may  yet  resign —  . 

Thus  we  drink  to  the  young  New  Year. 


THIRTY  YEARS  OLD. 

'Twas  twelve  o'clock,  and  the  house  was  hushed  ; 

The  fire  was  low — 'twas  wintry  weather ; 
The  mirror  with  lurid  light  was  flushed, 

And  the  very  chairs  seemed  to  creep  together. 
I  sat  and  thought,  in  a  dreamy  way, 

Of  dear  old  friends  and  dear  old  places, 
And  round  me  gathered  an  odd  array 

Of  old,  fantastic,  friendly  faces'. 


Charles  Graham  Halpine.  181 


Sitting  alone  in  my  easy-chair, 

Slippered  and  gowned  for  a  night  of  leisure, 
Suddenly  came  a  step  on  the  stair, 

Halting,  and  slow  as  an  old  man's  .measure. 
Twisting  around  with  a  nervous  start 

As  I  heard  the  door-knob  click  and  rattle, 
You  could  hear  the  beatings  of  my  heart 

As  I  braced  myself  for  a  burglar  battle. 

Nearer  and  nearer  the  footsteps  grew ; 

Holding  my  breath,  I  braced  my  sinews  ; 
Slower  it  came  as  closer  it  drew — 

"Tis  death,"  I  muttered, "  if  this  continues. 
Come !"  1  cried,  with  a  nervous  twinge ; 

And  opening  stealthily,  half  way  shrinking, 
The  door  revolved  on  its  silver  hinge, 

And  my  heart  the  while  kept  sinking— sinking. 

In  then  popped  an  old  white  head, 

Curiously  wrinkled,  curiously  ruddy : 
"  Old  Father  Time  I  am  called,"  he  said ; 

"May  I  pay  you  a  visit  in  your  study  ?" 
I  laughed :  "Oh  ho  !  no  burglar  this ! 

Welcome,  old  Time,  thou  doubt-dissolver  ; 
But  it's  well  for  you,  by  Jove  it  is, 

That  I  hadn't  my  hand  on  a  Colt's  revolver." 

Bitterly  smiled  the  wrinkled  man — 

Bitterly  smiled  as  in  sad  derision  : 
"Killing  old  Time  is  an  easy  plan, 

Which  thousands  appear  to  have  made  their  mission, 
But  you,"  and  here  he  grimly  bowed, 

The  grimmest  of  all  grim  smiles  dispensing, 
"Are  neither  so  hot-brained,  nor  half  so  loud 

As  you  were  when  the  race  was  first  commencing. 

"  You've  learned,  I  guess,  that  the  world  is  not 

A  bowl  in  which  only  sweet  things  mingle ; 
That  pleasure  and  pain  are  the  common  lot, 

Which  seldom  or  never  approach  us  single ; 
You  are  taught  that  words  do  not  always  show 

The  heart's  sincere  and  true  confession ; 
And  you've  learned  to  scan  the  straight-laced  man, 

WTho  is  loudest  and  longest  in  fair  profession." 

"  So  far,  all's  well ;  but  more  remains : 
You  must  now  take  care  of  the  dollars  dirty ; 

A  man  should  have  something  to  show  for  his  pains 
By  the  time  he  turns  the  stile  of  thirty. 


182  The  Poetical  WorJcs  of 


Get  you  a  wife !"    At  that  fearful  thought, 
Waking,  from  out  my  chair  I  started ; 

"Copy!'.'  my  printer's  devil  cried, 
And  my  vision  of  Time  was  a  thing  departed. 


SIMILES. 

One  asked  me  where  the  sunlight  grew, 

And  where  it  never  dies  ? 
In  silence  then  I  pointed  to 

The  heaven  in  Sylvia's  eyes. 

Another,  where  the  moon  doth  go 
When  paled  by  morning's  glare  ? 

* '  Gaze — gaze  on  Sylvia's  breast  of  snow, 
You'll  see  the  moonlight  there." 

A  third  said,  where  doth  Virtue  rest  ? 

Then  forth  my  words  did  start : 
"  In  Sylvia's  face  you'll  find  express'd 

The'goodness  of  her  heart." 

In  search  of  beauty,  grace,  and  wit, 

No  longer  vainly  stray, 
Seek  Sylvia's  shrine,  and  at  her  feet 

Your  humblest  homage  pay. 


NEW  VERSION  OF  JOHN  BROWN, 

AS   OHOEUSEI>  WITH   IMMENSE   EFFECT   BY    THE   THIRD  BHODE   ISLAND  NEGRO 
MINSTBELS,  ATTACHED   TO   THE   TENTH   AKMY   CORPS,   MARCH   30,  1868. 

Words  by  Rev.  M.  A.  French,  LL.D. ;  Music  by  Smiff. 

[Ye  first  verse  recites  ye  entirely  triumphal  manner  of  General  Fos 
ter's  entry  into  Port  Royal  Harbor,  thereunto  adding  ye  attitude 
in  which  ye  general  returned  to  NorffCaroliny.J 
John  G.  Foster,  oh !  he  brought  his  body  South, 
John  G.  Foster,  oh !  he  brought  his  body  South, 
But  Johnny  has  gone  homeward  with  his  fingers  in  his  mouth, 
As  we  go  marching  on. 

Sing  [chorus  led  by  y'at  distinguished  soldier-man,  Brigadier 

General  E.  E.  Potter] 
Sing  Glory,  glory  hallelujah,  etc.,  etc. 

[Verse  Second,  chanted  after  ye  manner  of  a  dirge  by  ye  Brigadier 
General  Ledley,  with  ye  starred,  red  shoulder-straps, 'sets  forth  ye 


Charles  Graham  Halpine.  183 

object  which  brought  ye  great  General  Foster  South,  and  reflects 

unbecomingly  on  ye  powers  of  ye  second  Big  Ingin  Potter  as  a 

pleader.] 

John  G.  Foster,  oh !  for  Charleston  he  was  hot, 

John  G.  Foster,  oh !  for  Charleston  he  was  hot, 

He  gave  his  case  to  Potter,  but  ye  pleader  went  to  pot, 

And  Hunter  marched  him  on. 

Sing  [chorus  led  by  ye  man  with  starred,  red  shoulder-straps, 
and  illustrated  with  recriminating  variation's  by  ye  great 
soldier-man  Potter] 
Sing  Glory,  glory  hallelujah,  etc. ,  etc. 

[Verse  Third  pays  ye  homage  of  devout  admiration  to  ye  unsurpass 
ed  and  magnificent  qualities  of  ye  members  of  ye  great  Conqueror 
Foster's  staff — all  ye  members  of  ye  staff,  without  exception,  join 
ing  in  ye  chorus  at  ye  top  of  their  voices,  but  none  others  singing. 
Chorus  led  by  Surgeon  Snelling,  ye  medical  director.] 
John  G.  Foster,  oh !  had  a  brilliant  staff, 
John  G.  Foster,  oh  !  had  a  brilliant  staff, 
But  honest  Uncle  David,  oh !  he  couldn't  stand  their  chaff, 

And  so  he  marched  them  on. 

Fing  [chorus  led  with  a  will  by  Lieutenant  Colonel  Francis 
Darr,  ye  chief  commissary,  who  has  pledged  himself  to  is 
sue  extra  rations  of  ye  beverage  known  as  "  B.  Whisky"  to 
every  one  outside  ye  staff  itself  who  will  join  in  ye  above 
verse] 
Sing  Glory,  glory  hallelujah,  etc.,  etc. 

[Verse  Fourth  recites,  with  a  vigor  and  terseness  that  is  refreshing, 
ye  action  takea  by  ye  real  Big  Ingin  of  ye  department,  otherwise 
known  as  ye  "Uncle  David,"  and  which  action  was  communicated 
to  ye  brilliant  staff  aforesaid,  as  his  high  appreciation  of  their 
many  excellent  qualities,  by  ye  fierce  little  man  y'clept  Major  E. 
Worthington  Smiff,  with  two  effs.] 
"  Git  out  of  my  department,"  was  our  Uncle  David's  cry, 
"  Git  out  of  my  department,"  was  our  angry  uncle's  cry, 
"Away  to  John  G.  Foster  by  the  first  conveyance  fly, 
And  say  I'm  marching  on." 

Sing  [chorus  led  by  ye  gay  and  festive  Fessenden,  with  ac 
companiments  of  high  old  equestrian  feats  by  ye  boy  Skinner 
and  ye  Acting  Assistant  Adjutant  General  Sealy,  Acting 
Deputy  Commodore  Kinzie  playing  a  break-down  on  ye 
banjo,  and  dancing  ye  same,  while  ye  agent  of  Adams's  Ex 
press  chimes  in  with  ye  appropriate  melody  of  a  Hebrew's 
labial  and  dental  harp]  , 

Sing  Glory,  glory  hallelujah,  etc.,  etc. 


184  The  Poetical  Works  of 


[Verse  Fifth  is  of  ye  deeply  and  touchingly  pathetic  kind,  all  the 
chief  mourners  having  wet  red  cotton  kerchiefs  applied  to  their 
streaming  eyes — the  youth  Samuel  Stockton  giving  an  occasional 
mop  with  his  own  wipe  to  ye  streaming  visionary  orbs  of  General 
Seymour,  whose  hands  are  occupied  in  playing  ye  Dead  March  of 
Saul  on  a  flute  specially  muffled  for  ye  occasion  by  Lieutenant 
,  Colonel  J.  F.  Hall,  P. M.G.— meaning  Provider  of  Musical  Gear 
for  the  Department.  Several  cullud  pussuns  enter  while  this 
chorus  is  going,  squeeze  the  red  cotton  kerchiefs  into  buckets, 
which  are  then  carried  down  to  ye  good  ship  "John  Faron,"  and 
there  presented  to  ye  great  soldier-man  E.  E.  Potter,  in  a  neat 
speech,  delivered  in  Congo  dialect  by  ye  boy  "Congress,"  who 
has  been  retained  for  this  ceremony.] 
For  John  G.  Foster,  boys,  we  drop  our  tender  tears,  ± 
And  for  the  staff  of  Foster,  boys,  we  shed  severial  tears  ; 
They've  gone  up  in  a  big  balloon,  and  won't  come  down  for  years, 

As  we  go  marching  on. 
Sing  [chorus  led  by  Major  Smiff,  in  a  pair  of  blue  soldiers' 

pants,  fitting  miraculously  round  his  flanks] 
Sing  Glory,  glory  hallelujah, 
Glory,  glory  hallelujah, 
Glof^,  glory  hallelujah, 

As  we  go  marching  on. 
Headquarters,  Hilton  Head,  S.C. 


O'MAHONY  OF  THE  COMER  AGPIS. 30 

AN  IMITATION  OF  THE  ANCIENT  IRISH,  FEOM  THE  WOEK8  OF  THE  FOUR  MASTERS. 

Give  me  your  hand,  O'Mahony ; 
Corrie  to  my  heart,  O'Mahony  ; 
Friend  of  my  soul,  O'Mahony — 

Chief  of  the  Comeraghs ! 
Great  have  your  toils  been,  O'Mahony ; 
Long  has  your  watch  been,  O'Mahony ; 
Soon  we  will  rest,  O'Mahony — 

Rest  on  the  Comeraghs. 

Let  the  dogs  bark,  O'Mahony ; 
Snarl  at  your  heels,  O'Mahony  ; 
Snarling  and  barking,  O'Mahony — 

Chief  of  the  Comeraghs  ! 
This  they  can  prove,  O'Mahony — 
All  they  can  prove,  O'Mahony — 
They  are  not  fit  peers  for  O'Mahony, 

Chief  of  the  Comeraghs ! 


Charles  Graham  Halpine.  185 


Black  are  the  mountains,  O'Mahony, 
Swift  are  the  streams,  O'Mahony, 
Fruitful  and  green  are  the  valleys, 

Far  hid  in  the  hushed  Comeraghs. 
Gray  are  the  rocks,  O'Mahony, 
Golden  the  furzes,  O'Mahony, 
And  purple  and  drooping  the  heather  bells, 

Clothing  the  Comeraghs. 

Wildly  the  eagles,  O'Mahony, 
Scream  o'er  the  peaks,  O'Mahony, 
Where  the  soft  clouds  of  the  morning 

Stoop  to  the  Comeraghs  ; 
There  we  will  rest,  O'Mahony — 
Kest  on  some  ledge,  O'Mahony, 
Looking  far  down,  O'Mahony — 

Down  from  the  Comeraghs. 

Thousands  of  smoke-wreaths,  O'Mahony, 
Curling  up  bluely,  O'Mahony, 
From  the  thatched  roofs  beneath  us, 

Couched  in  the  Comeraghs, 
These  we  will  waken,  O'Mahony —        .0; 
Waken  with  bugles,  O'Mahony, 
When  our  old  banner  goes  homeward, 

And  visits  the  Comeraghs. 

High  on  that  ledge,  O'Mahony, 
Soon  the  green  banner,  O'Mahony, 
"  Sun-burst  and  harp"  far  flashing, 

We'll  give  to  the  Comeraghs ; 
While  thick  through  the  valleys,  O'Mahony, 
Swarm  all  the  true  men,  O'Mahony, 
Shouting  and  pushing  to  join  us, 

High  up  on  the  steep  Comeraghs. 

Oh,  by  the  God  of  all  battles ! 
Oh,  by  the  great  God  of  battles ! 
The  spirits  of  Hugh  and  Tyrconnell 

Will  smile  on  the  Comeraghs. 
By  the  ghoSts  of  Kildare  and  of  Lucan, 
By  the  blood  of  O'Niel  and  Lord  Edward, 
By  Emmet  and  Tone,  our  lost  leaders, 

We'll  meet  on  the  Comeraghs ! 

And  then,  like  a  torrent,  O'Mahony,  . 
Bursting  down  headlong,  O'Mahony, 
With  fair  Tipperary  before  us, 

Behind  us  the  grim  Comeraghs, 


186  The  Poetical  Works  of 


Our  land  shall  be  free,  O'Mahony-— 
Free  as  the  eagles,  O'Mahony, 
Swooping  and  screaming  in  circles 

Round  the  peaks  of  the  great  Comeraghs. 


A  TOAST  AND  A  CHEER. 

Gather  round  me,  friends  and  comrades, 

Let  us  drink  a  wassail  bowl 
"  To  the  gentle  hearts  that  love  us, 

To  the  pure  and  good  of  soul. " 
Life  is  short,  too  quickly  passing, 

And  each  year  seems  but  a  day — 
Then  accept  each  flying  moment, 

And  enjoy  it  while  we  may. 

What  is  sorrow  met  with  courage  ? 

For  it  can  not  bring  disgrace, 
And  misfortune  soon  will  vanish 

If  you  look  it  in  the  face. 
The  coward  shrinks  and  shivers 

When  the  clouds  their  shadows  cast ; 
The  brave  man  trusts  in  God  alone, 

And  struggles  to  the  last. 

What  matter  if  dull  slanders'  tooth 

Hath  fastened  on  thy  name, 
Or  years  of  labor  find  thee  still 

Without  a  golden  fame  ? 
Time  settles  with  us,  one  and  all : 

So  pay  no  worldly  toll, 
But  drink  "  to  those  who  love  us," 

To  the  pure  and  good  of  soul. 


LABOR'S  WAR  SONG. 

Up,  brethren,  up !     The  world  is  not 

So  bad  as  some  would  make  it, 
Although  we  till  a  stubborn  lot, 

The  plow  of  toil  can  break  it ; 
And  wheat — a  sea  of  amber-froth — 

White  apple  bloom  and  blushing  cherries, 
Wfll  soon  replace  the  thistle  growth 

And  bitter  bramble-berries. 


Charles  Graham  Halpine.  187 


For  life's  a  field — a  goodly  field, 
Where  skill  and  long  endeavor 

Can  make  the  barren  wilderness 
Her  Eden  bower  forever. 

Wherever  Season  bids  you  go, 

Be  prompt  and  firm  to  follow  ; 
Never  build  a  house  on  Age's  snow — 

Tradition  is  but  hollow. 
With  eyes  that  never  shun  the  light, 

Even  though  it  show  your  past  mischances, 
Ride  down  the  phantom  blood  of  night 
With  troops  of  gallant  fancies. 

For  life's  a  fight — a  stubborn  fight, 

Where  hope  and  fresh  endeavor 
Can  overcome  the  host  of  Care 
Forever  and  forever. 

Should  sorrow  hem  you  in  upon 

Some  bleak  and  lonely  mountain, 
Ne'er  sigh  for  the  forsaken  lawn 
And  willow-shaded  fountain ; 
But  on  the  lightning- shivered  top, 
Learn  of  the  eagle  self-reliance, 
And  let  the  whirlwinds,  as  they  drop, 
Bear  down  your  bold  defiance. 

For  life's  a  fight — a  gallant  fight, 

Where  heart  and  strong  endeavor 
Shall  win  the  palm  and  wear  the  palm 
Forever  and  forever. 

Besieged  in  Want's  despised  retreat, 

And  with  resource  but  scanty, 
Fling  over  half  you'd  like  to  eat, 

That  men  may  think  you've  plenty ; 
'Twas  thus  the  Goth  was  driven  from  Rome, 

And  'tis  a  maxim  broadly  Roman, 
Whate'er  the  tears  that  fall  at  home, 
Laugh  loud  before  your  foeman. 

For  life's  a  siege — a  long-drawn  siege, 

A  fierce  protracted  trial, 
Where  fate  forever  gives  the  palm 
To  hope  and  self-denial. 

Should  those  you  befriended  in  distress 

Forget  you — 'tis  the  fashion — 
Ne'er  let  them  know  their  worthlessness          • 

Had  power  to  move  your  passion ; 


188  The  Poetical  Works  of 


Be  cool,  and  smile ;  the  war  of  life 

Again  may  place  you  far  above  them ; 
And,  should  you  chance  to  meet  in  strife, 
Then  prove  how  much  you  love  them. 
For  life's  a  fight — a  varying  fight, 

Defeat  and  victory  blended, 
Though  wrong  may  triumph  for  a  while, 
Right  wins  ere  all  is  ended. 

Should  she  who  shared  your  summer  lot 

Now  shun  your  cold  caresses, 
Oh,  blame  her  not — oh,  hurt  her  not, 

But  loose  her  golden  jesses ; 
She  never  loved :  no  power  on  earth 

Can  change  a  woman's  true  affection, 
Nor  is  the  haggard  falcon  worth 
A  moment's  sad  dejection. 

Forget  her  frailty  in  the  fight 

Where  brain  and  bold  endeavor 
Still  win  at  will  a  changeless  crown 
Forever  and  forever. 

Avoid  the  fruitless  strife  of  creed — 

You  can  not  turn  or  guide  it ; 
Let  heaven  award  the  victor's  meed, 

And  priest  with  priest  decide  it ; 
Believe  that  life  is  fleeting  breath, 

Be  just  to  man  and  love  your  neighbor, 
And  take  this  ritual  for  your  faith — 
"  Truth,  temperance,  and  labor ;" 

And  thus  the  clouds  of  wrong  that  veil 

The  heaven  of  life  will  sever, 
And  the  palm  be  his  who  wears  the  mail 
Of  faith  and  firm  endeavor. 


TRANSLATIONS  FROM  HORACE— NO.  XI. 

BOOK  III.,  ODE  XXI.   VERY  FREELY  TRANSLATED  BY  CHARLES  BROADfiEXT. 

Thou  precious  cask,  sealed  up  on  the  same  morning 

Mine  eyes  first  opened  to  the  sun's  bright  ray, 
My  dusty  cellar-bin  so  long  adorning, 

Come  forth,  and  shed  your  fragrance  on  my  way. 
Whether  you  hold  within  you  food  of  quarrel, 

Or  wit,  or  love,  or  gentle  sleep,  or  play, 
Come*from  your  shelf,  my  old  and  trusty  barrel, 

We'll  tap  your  side  on  this  auspicious  day. 


Charles  Graham.  Halpine.  189 


Descend !  for  Wideswarth  comes,  and  would  inspect  thee' 

Pour  forth  a  flood  of  rich  and  mellow  wine ; 
His  soul  will  not  Maine-lawishly  reject  thee, 

Though  it  has  drunk  the  music  of  the  Nine. 
Old  Cato's  iron  virtue  is  recorded, 

When  full  of  thee,  more  tenderly  to  shine, 
And  many  a  careworn  spirit  is  rewarded 

By  the  soft  stimulant  it  finds  in  thine. 

You  ease  the  cares,  and  fears,  and  secret  sorrows, 

Even  of  the  wise,  with  each  inspiring  drop  ; 
The  trembling  soul  from  you  fresh  courage  borrows, 

And  weak  men  cry  to  wealthy  tyrants  "  Stop !"  . 
Inspired  with  thee,  the  coward  fears  no  longer, 

For  thou  unto  him  art  a  sturdy  prop  ; 
And  poor  men  bow  not  down  unto  the  stranger, 

But  call  them  truly  either  knave  or  fop. 

Come,  Father  Bacchus,  and  thou,  Cyprian  goddess, 
If  in  good  humor,  come,  and  bring  along 

The  Graces,  each  with  an  ungirdled  bodice — 

.     Come  to  the  wine-cup  and  the  gladdening  song. 

Come ;  and  with  mirth,  and  reveling,  and  dancing, 
We'll  drive  away  whatever  doleful  seems, 

Until  bright  Phoebus,  o'er  the  mountain  glancing, 
Outshines  our  light  in  his  more  plenteous  beams. 


THE  SOUVENIR. 

Ah !  lady,  howsoe'er  it  fall 

In  Time's  protracted  race, 
No  flowers  are  needed  to  recall 

Thy  pure  and  gentle  face. 
Within  my  heart  thy  image  lives 

Through  all  life's  busy  hours, 
While  hope  a  greater  perfume  gives 

Than  e'er  was  breathed  by  flowers. 

But  thanks  for  the  memorial  sent, 

The  leaf  and  pansy  too, 
So  neatly  and  so  sweetly  blent 

Within  the  ribbon  blue. 
When  fades  from  every  leaf  the  tint, 

Yet  prized  by  me  the  same  ; 
My  beating  heart  shall  proudly  hint 

From  whence  the  leaflets  came. 


190  The  Poetical  Works  of 


Fit  emblems  of  our  summer  hours, 

Without  a  cloud  o'ercast, 
The  ribbon  with  its  votive  flowers 

Shall  well  recall  the  past — 
Recall  me  to  the  beach  of  sand 

Where  still  the  breakers  shine, 
And  the  gentle  lady  from  whose  hand 

This  pansy  passed  to  mine. 


TO  A  WEALTHY  AMATEUR  CRITIC. 

NOT  AT  ALL  SUPPOSED  TO  BE  WRITTEN  BY  LORD  BYRON. 

They  tell  me  'tis  decided  you  condemn  ; 

You  may  be  wrong,  or  I,  perhaps,  too  vain  ; 
I  have  no  power  the  critic-power  to  stem, 

Nor,  though  I  had,  should  I  incur  the  pain ; 
Far  easier  is  it  for  me  to  contemn 

You  and  your  censure,  as  you  scorn  my  strain. 
My  verse,  it  seems,  calls  forth  your  moral  fears, 
And  o'er  each  page  you  shed  "  Pecksniffian"  tears. 

I  wrote — still  scribble — and  for  this  have  lost 
Some  idle  hours  and  your  esteemed  esteem  ; 

Nor  do  I  yet  regret  what  it  hath  cost, 

Nor  your  sharp  stricture  as  conclusive  deem  ; 

No  tender  flower  that  -withers  in  the  frost, 
No  milksop  minstrel  in  a  sickly  dream, 

I  still  can  sleep,  walk,  dance,  and  drink  and  dine, 

Read  your  critiques — and  some  are  really  fine. 

Your  pen  is  of  your  life  a  thing  apart — 
It  is  my  whole  existence.     You  may  gain 

An  hour's  amusement  from  the  scribbling  art — 
I  write  for  bread ;  and  if  this  be  a  stain 

Upon  my  muse's  'scutcheon,  ask  your  heart 
What  could  you  do  should  fortune  not  remain 

Your  friend  as  now  ?     Is  this  conclusion  right — 

I  eat  and  scribble ;  you  would  starve  and  write  ? 

You  will  proceed  in  your  unguerdoned  way, 
Condemning  fifty  and  perusing  one ; 

For  me,  so  long  as  publishers  will  pay, 
I  own  my  course  of  rhyming  but  begun. 

Scalp  as  you  will — no  leniency,  I  pray ; 
I  neither  hate  a  critic  nor  a  dun  ; 

Both,  to  be  sure,  are  necessary  evils — 

Bad  r.t  the  best,  but  not  entirely  devils. 


Charles  Graham  Halpine.  191 


"  My  verses  are  unequal."     Be  it  so. 

The  world  itself  is  full  of  woe  and  weal : 
My  pen  still  follows  where  my  feelings  flow, 

And,  good  or  bad,  I  speak  the  thing  I  feel. 
As  the  muse  wills  it,  why  the  jade  may  go ; 

I  own  no  snaffle,  and  I  use  no  heel ; 
The  spavined  Pegasus  just  takes  her  leisure, 
Nor  e'er  for  business  will  forego  her  pleasure. 

I  have  no  more  to  say — yet  scribble  still, 
Eking  out  lines  as  spinners  do  their  flax ; 

I  had  not  lived  till  now  could  critics  kill 

(What  rhyme  will  serve  ?     Oh  tell  me,  John  G.  Saxe ! 

In  words,  I  know,  thou  hast  a  pretty  skill — 
Arch  wielder  of  the  jingling  lingual  axe. 

See!  conjured  thus  by  him,  their  master-spirit 

Khymes  hap  into  my  lines  soon  as  his  name  they  hear  it.) 

And  so  farewell,  my  critic.     I  have  brought 

A  friend  to  help  me  in  the  dire  distress 
Of  that  last  stanza,  where  I  else  was  caught 

In  what  the  world  calls  "an  infernal  mess." 
Four  out  your  vials  ;  let  each  sentence,  fraught 

With  scorn  and  hatred,  down  upon  me  press  ; 
I  wait  with  meekest  patience  your  review, 
But,  for  the  present,  wish  you  well.     Adieu  ! 


SYLVIA. 

Oh  fly,  my  heart,  to  Sylvia  fly, 
And  tell  her  that  I  pine— I  die — 
That  every  breath  is  but  a  sigh 

Of  grief — of  pain — for  love's  desires. 
Oh !  tell  her  that  so  fondly  shrined 
Within  my  heart  her  image  kind, 
To  all  beside  my  soul  is  blind, 

And  love  consumes  me  with  its  fires. 

Oh !  tell  dear  Sylvia  that  my  brain 

Awakes  to  life  and  hope  again, 

And  thoughts  that  long  have  dormant  lain 

Come  rushing  at  a  headlong  pace. 
Oh  say,  my  heart,  that  she  alone 
Has  taught  thee  secrets  long  unknown, 
And  all  my  soul  to  her  has  flown — 

The  queen  of  beauty,  love,  and  grace. 


!!)•>  The  Poetical  Works  of 


Return,  my  heart,  from  Sylvia's  arms, 

And  say  responsive  love  alarms 

Her  breast — so  fair  from  virgin  charms 

And  bids  me  to  her  bosom  fly. 

My  passion  knows  no  purer  bliss — 
No  love — no  other  life  but  this ; 
One  hour  of  heaven  in  Sylvia's  kiss — 

One  warm  embrace  of  love — then  die ! 


OLDEN  MEMORIES. 

Once  again,  with  memory  toying, 

Brings  a  vision  of  the  past — 
Every  olden  will  employing, 

Opening  treasures  rich  and  vast. 
Comes  the  early  passion,  seeming 

All  a  world  of  rapturous  bliss, 
Boyhood's  youthful  hopes  and  dreaming 

Crowned  and  radiant  with  a  kiss. 

borrowing  pass  in  endless  number 

Shadowy  files  of  marching  years, 
Buried  in  perpetual  slumber, 

Dimmed  and  stained  with  bitter  tears. 
Falls,  in  gentle  dalliance,  longing 

O'er  the  mirror  of  my  brain 
One  fond  shape,  and  round  it  thronging, 

Love  and  hope  awake  again. 

Ah !  that  phantom  let  me  follow  ; 

Nothing  can  its  place  supply ; 
All  succeeding  hopes  are  hollow — 

Dust  and  ashes  to  the  eye. 
Gone  the  glorious  inspiration, 

Girdling  life  with  passion's  zone, 
Leaving  but  the  dull  stagnation 

Of  the  heart  when  all  is  known. 

Panting,  longing  for  the  highest, 

And  condemned  to  sigh  in  vain, 
Seeing  hopes  that  seemed  the  nighest 

Vanish  like  a  ghostly  train  : 
Little  left  to  make  exertion 

Worth  the  labor  of  its  cost —       •  •  .  •-*• 
All  that  is  a  weary  version 

Of  the  perished"  and  the  lost. 


Charles  Graham  Halpine.  193 


Oh  !  in  many  a  night  of  sorrow, 

When  the  hours  have  no  relief, 
And  the  darkness  seems  to  borrow 

Deeper  shadows  from  our  grief — 
Then  again,  with  memory  toying, 

Comes  the  vision  of  the  past, 
And  on  these  our  thoughts  employing, 

Daylight  breaks  on  us  at  last. 


THEATRICAL  GINGERNUTS. 

In  the  upper  crust  ring  there's  a  gay  little  clique, 

Who  greatly  admire  one  another, 
And  who  go  to  the  theatre  once  in  a  week 

To  splurge  it  and  kick  up  a  bother. 
They  hire  a  cheap  box,  and  Avithin  it  they  crowd 

Till  as  full  as  a  bandbox  they've  packed  it, 
And  they  laugh  and  tell  stories  so  noisy  and  loud 

That  the  whole  of  the  house  is  distracted. 

* '  The  Gingernut  Club"  they  are  happily  called, 

And  a  gingerbread  crew  you  will  find  them ; 
By  frowns  of  impatience  and  raps  unappalled, 

No  restraints  of  decorum  can  bind  them ; 
They  grin  and  they  smirk,  do  these  small  upper  "crust," 

On  a  mutual  plan  of  admiring, 
And  you'd  think,  as  you  watched  them  in  pain  and  disgust, 

'Twas  the  house,  not  the  box,  they  were  hiring. 


THE  MARCHIONESS. 

A  summer  languor  dreaming  o'er  her  face, 
A  look  half  smile — yet  breathing  half  a  sigli — 

Her  step  an  echo  whispering  every  grace, 
The  stately  marchioness  sweeps  grandly  by. 

A  form  that  no  rude  gesture  ever  mars, 

Its  glowing  beauty  radiant  in  repose ; 
Warm  as  the  sunbeam — tranquil  as  the  stars — 

Chaste  as  the  lily — sensuous  as  the  rose. 

A  brow  as  clear  as  April  morning  air, 

A  mild  gray  eye  of  rich  and  lustrous  hue ; 

Soft  waving  tresses  of  dark  auburn  hair, 

And  shell-shaped  ears,  small  and  vein-penciled  blue. 

13  I 


194 


The  Poetical  Works  of 


Lips,  rivaling  Cupid's  roseate  bed  of  flowers, 
Stand  sentry  at  a  gate  of  glistening  pearl ; 

A  voice  like  melodies  of  childhood's  hours 
Bridging  the  lost  years  of  the  budding  girl. 

A  vesture  regal  as  an  Orient  queen, 
A  single  jewel  flashing  vainly  bright, 

Seeking  to  rival  Avith  its  brilliant  sheen 

Her  swan-like  bosom,  pure  and  ivory  white. 

Her  motion  was  one  grand  harmonious  swell 
Of  charmed  music  Avhen  the  eye  is  fair ; 

And  as  she  walked,  a  fragrant  incense  fell 
From  garment  perfumes  to  anoint  the  air. 

All !  life,  that  lingered  in  that  placid  look 

Like  dreams  of  sunset  on  some  autumn  day — 

Ah  !  grief,  my  very  soul  its  God  forsook, 
And  in  her  smile  passed  all  content  away. 

Fair  marchioness,  to  every  memory  dear, 
A  glance  of  Eden's  symmetry  was  given 

To  thee,  to  show  how  angels — even  here — 

Are  found  and  draped  to  fill  the  choirs  of  heaven. 


COOL  OF  THE  EVENING. 

Lady,  it  but  little  matters — 
Matters  least  of  all  to  you — 

Whether  I  am  warm  or  callous, 
False  to  love,  or  fond  and  true. 

Be  assured  you  need  not  fear  me — 
Ne'er  to  you  a  pledge  I'll  break ; 

For  the  plain  and  simple  reason 
That  I  have  no  pledge  to  make. 

All  the  sighs  to  you  I  offer 

Shall  be  passionate  and  sincere ; 

Only  when  you  hear  them,  tell  me, 
For  I  too  might  like  to  hear. 

Blame  not  that  my  eyes  will  kindle 
Gazing  on  a  beauteous  form — 

Heaven  has  saved  you  from  the  insult 
Of  such  glances,  keen  and  warm. 


Charles  Graham  Halpine. 


195 


Madam,  from  your  thoughts  dismiss  me, 
Cease  to  rail  against  my  name ; 

Time  has  been  when  you  grew  careless, 
And  'twas  my  care  saved  your  fame. 

I  am  careful,  when  not  eager, 
Where  to  love  would  be  a  task ; 

And  chaste  as  Joseph  when  temptation 
Woos  me  in  an  ugly  mask. 

Therefore  silence,  and  forget  me, 

Or  my  memory,  at  last, 
May  present  some  startling  pictures 

Sketched  and  painted  in  the  past. 


THE.  MYSTIC  VOICE. 

Earth  is  a  realm  of  ceaseless  change, 

Where  forms  are  merged  in  fresher  forms, 
And  still  the  beautiful  and  strange 

Are  cradled  in  destructive  storms ; 
For  Nature's  alchemies  impart 

New  life  to  all  transmuted  things, 
And  lend  the  flesh-decaying  heart 

The  external  spirit's  tireless  wings. 

The  sordid  shrine,  whose  vestal  fire 

Burns  dim  within  the  grosser  frame, 
May  perish,  but  the  rays  aspire, 

And  reach  once  more  from  whence  they  came. 
We  pass,  as  through  the  entrance'd  flood,' 

From  Egypt's  toil  to  Canaan's  bloom, 
And  with  the  sacrifice  of  blood 

We  find  new  life  beyond  the  tomb. 

Still,  through  the  vast  and  deepening  void, 

Like  sentient  flames  the  spirits  come — 
Eternal,  changeless,  undestroyed, 

And  speaking,  though  the  grave  be  dumb. 
Within  the  soul  their  vital  spell 

Reveals  the  fount  from  whence  it  rose — 
The  beautiful — the  terrible — 

The  strange  preamble  to  the  close. 

And  thou  whose  soul  with  ardor  filled 
Hast  seen  the  fire  and  heard  the  voice, 

For  whom  the  future  field  is  tilled, 

And  waits  the  harvest,  make  thy  choice. 


196  The  Poetical  Works  of 


It  lies  before  thee ;  struggle,  strive, 
Thou  canst  not  beat  conviction  back ; 

Weak  fugitive  from  higher  life, 
Eternal  wings  pursue  thy  track. 

Ah !  traitor  soul,  for  whom  in  vain 

The  veil  of  heaven  was  drawn  aside, 
As  if  to  give  thy  cleansed  brain 

An  ampler  scope,  a  steadier  guide — 
Thou  slave  of  sense,  still  madly  hurled 

Across  the  unfruitful  waste  of  years — 
Thou  stagnant  ship,  whose  white  sails,  furled, 

Kot  idly,  dropping  stagnant  tears. 

Awake !     Beyond  the  impassive  grave 

The  spheres  of  being  spread  afar, 
Circle  on  circle,  wave  on  wave, 

An  ocean,  where  each  freighted  star 
Is  as  a  bark  that  bears  along, 

From  suffering  to  the  blissful  shore, 
The  beautiful,  the  good,  and  strong, 

Their  term  of  sad  probation  o'er. 

Earth  dies,  and  heaven  with  purer  light 

Prepares  to  clothe  our  mystic  orb ; 
Bright  spirits  move  in  viewless  flight 

To  cheer  the  dying,  and  absorb 
The  falsehoods  which  have  mingled  still 

Their  pain  in  life's  enchanted  bowl ; 
Heaven's  6nly  keys  are  human  will, 

A  striving  love,  an  earnest  soul. 


A  DRINKING  SONG. 

Oh !  here's  to  the  wine — the  ruby  wine, 

That  touches  the  lips  with  bloom, 
Like  a  purple  fire  consuming  care, 

And  lighting  our  darkest  gloom. 
It  gladdens  the  heart  with  rosy  light — 

May  its  glory  ne'er  decline ; 
For  our  souls  are  glad  and  our  hopes  are  bright 

While  quaffing  the  purple  wine. 

Then  here's  to  the  wine — the  flashing  wine, 

As  it  beadeth  the  cup  of  joy, 
And,  king  like,  mounts  upon  Reason's  throne, 

Making  dull  sense  its  toy. 


Charles  Graham  Halpine.  197 


Oh,  it  claspeth  the  hand  of  our  fainting  soul, 

With  passion  lights  the  eyes, 
And  radiant  from  out  the  burning  bowl 

We  see  young  Love  arise. 

Then  here's  to  the  wine — the  deathless  wine  ; 

No  kingly  jewels  surpass 
The  liquid  rubies  which  flash  and  shine 

In  the  depths  of  each  brimming  glass. 
All  praise  Ave  give*  to  the  nectar  sweet, 

All  praise  to  the  bearing  vine — 
Praise  to  the  board  at  which  true  friends  meet, 

And  praise  to  the  purple  wine. 


THE  RUBY  RING. 

Dear  brother,  when  the  listless  pen 

Sways  idly  in  my  wearied  fingers, 
And  round  my  throbbing  heart  and  brain 

No  ray  of  brighter  fancy  lingers, 
I  catch  the  sparkle  of  the  stone 

That  speaks  of  friendship  undecaying, 
And  straight  the  clouds  aside  are  thrown — 

A  fresher  light  is  round  me  playing. 

They  say  that  talismans  of  old 

Protected  from  all  hidden  dangers ; 
That  spirits  lay  within  the  gold, 

At  once  protectors  and  avengers. 
The  ring  you  gave,  like  these,  may  prove 

The  bane  of  grief,  the  source  of  pleasure ; 
For  all  is  pleasing  that  can  move 

Remembrance  of  an  absent  treasure. 

Like  friendship's  fire,  the  brilliant  toy, 

Deep  set  in  memory's  golden  circle, 
Throws  back  the  ruddy  beam  of  joy, 

And  in  the  dullest  night  will  sparkle. 
The  ring,  like  memory — endless  both — 

Its  warmth  from  out  my  heart  is  getting, 
And,  like  myself,  of  foreign  growth, 

Rejoices  in  a  Yankee  setting. 

My  muse — a  woman,  and  you  know 
The  female  heart  inclines  to  jewels — 

Whene'er  she  wants  "full  speed"  to  go, 
Her  engine  at  the  ruby  fuels. 


198  The  Poetical  Works  of 

The  pistons  of  alternate  rhyme 

Move  up  and  down  with  steady  motion  ; 

The  train  of  thought,  defying  time, 

Speeds  on  through  earth,  and  air,  and  ocean. 

The  Koh-i-noor  in  Britain's  crown 

Is  India's  blood-mark  set  upon  her ; 
The  sapphire  clasp  of  beauty's  gown 

Perchance  was  purchased  by  dishonor. 
The  miser's  gold  is  dim  with  tears, 

And  rusted  thick  with  cent,  per  centage ; 
My  ring,  then,  clearly  it  appears, 

O'er  these  can  claim  immense  advantage. 

The  lips,  by  Cyprian  Venus  planned, 

Convey  love's  telegraphic  greeting, 
But  friendship  meets  us  hand  to  hand, 

To  feel  how  cither's  pulse  is  beating ; 
And  on  that  hand  this  ring  I  hold, 

As  prized  as  talisman  by  dervis, 
And  may  that  hand  be  foul  and  cold 

When  'tis  not  warmly  at  thy  service. 


TO  NEA. 

I  never  dreamed  that  you  could  love  me, 

And  now  'tis  time  we  part ; 
You  are  too  fair,  and  far  too  high  above  me — 

I  may  not  reach  thy  heart. 
On  different  paths  our  feet  must  press  : 

You,  bound  for  pleasure's  blossomed  altar ; 
While  o'er  the  hills,  with  heavier  stress, 

My  fainting  footsteps  falter. 

Alas !  the  hopes  my  soul  that  haunted 

In  the  now  spectral  past ; 
You  the  sole  treasure  that  my  spirit  vaunted, 

My  first  love  and  my  last ; 
This  single  passion  filled  my  breast, 

Through  all  my  manhood  burning  clearer ; 
And  Fame  I  measured  by  the  test — 

To  thee  it  brings  me  nearer. 

But  gone — all  gone  the  glorious  vision ; 

Shadows  across  it  fall ; 
And  time  has  taught  me,  with  its  chill  precision, 

The  lesson  taught  to  all : 


Charles  Graham  Halpine.  199 


That  love,  like  other  mortal  things, 
Grows  weary  of  protracted  waiting, 

And  that  it  rends  its  shining  wings 
Against  the  rough  world  grating. 

I've  learned  the  world  more  fully  now, 

But  still,  till  memory  perish, 
Your  image,  with  its  radiant  brow, 

My  faithful  heart  shall  cherish ; 
And  wheresoe'er  your  fate  be  cast, 

In  shade  or  sunshine,  gloom  or  lustre, 
Borne  from  the  friendships  of  the  past, 

My  thoughts  shall  round  thee  cluster. 

With  all  a  lover's  eager  care 

I  watch  thy  happy  lot, 
Praying  for  thee  a  fortune  fair — 

Myself  perhaps  forgot.     - 
And  still  I  feel  through  all  my  strife 

Thy  holy  influence  gliding — 
Thou  art  the  loadstar  of  my  life, 

My  soul  from  earth  dividing. 


THE  FERRY-BOATS  OF  GOTHAM. 

The  ferry-boats  of  Gotham, 

How  gloriously  they  glide, 
With  lamps  of  red  and  lamps  of  blue, 

Across  the  starless  tide; 
Through  long  defiles  of  blazing  light 

On  each  street- studded  shore ; 
No  sound  to  break  the  hush  of  night 

Except  the  paddles'  roar. 

Around  the  Island  City  lie, 

Encircling  block  and  mart, 
Vast  ships  that  rear  against  the  sky 

A  forest-growth  of  art ; 
And  girdled  thus  with  winged  might — 

Though  now  the  wings  are  furled — 
Manhattan  is,  what  Venice  was, 

The  Sea-Queen  of  the  world. 

Oh,  feny-boats,  the  argosies 
That  tyrants  launched  of  yore, 

To  bring  them  gold,  and  gems,  and  spice 
From  India's  plundered  shore, 


200  The  Poetical  Works  of 


Ne'er  knew  a  freight  so  rich  as  this, 

That  humbly,  day  by  day, 
To  Brooklyn  homes  and  social  ease 

From  business  ye  convey. 

Let  Russia  launch  her  birds  of  prey 

Against  the  Crescent  Moon, 
And  butcher  in  Sinope's  Bay 

The  convoy  of  Batoon  ,• 
Let  France  and  England,  holding  back, 

Deny  the  aid  they  swore, 
Until  the  sea  that  once  was  Black, 

Grow  red  with  Turkish  gore. 

But  ye,  undaunted  ferry-boats, 

Your  pathless  course  pursue, 
Nor  any  nobler  navy  floats, 

Nor  manned  by  hearts  more  true ; 
Your  mission  is  to  spread  content, 

Love,  joy,  and  wealth  to  bear — 
Odd's  life !  I  haven't  got  a  cent 

To  pay  my-blessed  fare. 


THE  FIRST  OF  MAY.    ;i 

The  first  of  May,  the  first  of  May, 
What  lying  poet  called  it  gay  ? 
There  is  the  very  devil  to  pay, 
And  no  pitch  hot,  on  the  first  of  May. 

The  house  I  took  a  twelvemonth  since, 
And  furnished  fit  to  lodge  a  prince — 
That  cheerful  house  I  quit  to-day, 
Because  it  is  the  first  of  May. 

My  carpets  all  are  torn  to  shreds, 
We  have  not  where  to  lay  our  heads ; 
The  beds  are  all  unscrewed,  and  we 
Are  "screwed"  as  tight  as  men  can  be. 
Our  new  piano,  new  no  more, 
In  fragments  lies  upon  the  floor  ; 
Our  China  service,  once  so  neat, 
Now  helps  to  pave  the  laughing  street. 

"  Alas !"  I  cry  in  utter  grief, 
"Would  heaven  I  were  an  Arab  chief! 
He  roams  about  unrented  places, 
And  camps  in  every  green  oasis." 


Charles  Graham  Halpine.  201 

The  wagoners  alone  can  say 
The  festival  is  truly  gay ; 
The  scallawags  get  a  fortnight's  pay 
For  working  on  the  first  of  May. 


A  LOST  LOVE. 

The  glory  of  the  dream  is  past, 
The  sweet  illusion  melts  in  air, 
And,  calmly  facing  a  despair, 

I  whisper,  'tis  the  last — the  last — 
The  last  and  most  divinely  fair, 

The  brightest,  sunniest,  and  the  last. 

All  forms  of  life,  with  rapid  eye, 
To  seize,  to  ponder,  and  survey ; 
To  watch  the  scales  turn  either  way, 

And  every  truth  to  test  and  try — 
To  try,  and  yet  how  far  we  stray 

When  judging  that  for  which  we  sigh ! 

Your  friendship  in  its  gilded  bark 
Glides  on  as  calmly  as  before ; 
But  my  impetuous  fancy  bore 

A  helmless  boat  beyond  the  mark, 
And  on  a  far  surf-whitened  shore 

The  wreck  beats,  drifting  through  the  dark. 

Henceforth  we  meet  with  less  to  dread, 
And  less  to  hope  on  either  side ; 
You  balanced  on  a  holy  pride, 

And  I  on  that  which  serves  instead — 
A  stubborn  jealousy  to  hide 

The  wound  which  most  of  all  hath  bled. 


THE  REJECTED. 

He  bowed  his  head  as  if  the  chords 

Of  life  had  snapped  in  twain  ; 
I  could  not  catch  his  hurried  words, 

But  they  sounded  full  of  pain ; 
His  eyes  were  lit  with  a  feverish  fire, 

His  cheek  had  a  hectic  stain, 
And  as  he  stooped  to  kiss  my  hand, 

His  tears  fell  down  like  rain. 

I  2 


The  Poetical  Works  of 


We  met  once  more  in  after  years, 

When  I — another's  bride — 
Had  learned  to  measure  by  my  tears 

The  costliness  of  pride. 
Amid  the  gay,  unheeding  crowd, 

Chance  threw  us  side  by  side  ; 
He  seemed  the  wreck  of  a  noble  heart 

Whose  hope  had  early  died. 

The  unforgotten  look  returned — 

The  sad,  impassioned  look ; 
It  seemed  to  pierce  my  very  soul, 

And  read  it  as  a  book. 
He  bowed  his  head  and  strove  to  smile 

Alas !  I  could  not  brook 
To  know  how  worthless  all  I  gained, 

And  see  what  1  forsook. 


THREE  OF  US  AT  THE  FOUNTAIN. 

BY    WIPEBWARTH. 

Come,  Broadbent,  Creyton,  sit  ye  by  my  side, 

And  view  yon  column  with  its  foamy  crest 
Upspringing  from  the  frog  pond's  glassy  tide, 

To  fall  again  in  snow  upon  its  breast. 
Oh,  it  is  very  beautiful ;  and  mark 

The  golden  glow  it  borrows  from  the  west, 
As  the  red  sunlight  dwindles  to  a  spark, 

And  fevered  day  sinks  languidly  to  rest. 
Yet  that  hoarse  measure  sadly  fills  my  ear — 

My  soul  with  dark  emotions  is  oppressed ; 
A  voice  comes  mingling  with  the  murmur  here — 

A  stern  and  solemn  voice  that  may  not  jest — 
Wideswarth,  it  says,  'tis  thus  you  vainly  climb, 
To  fall  as  flat  as  this  upon  the  tide  of  rhyme. 


THE  FOUNTAIN  ON  BOSTON  COMMON. 

TO   CIIA.R1/E8   BEOADBENT  AND   PROFESSOR  WIDESWARTH,  BY    PAUL   CREYTON. 

The  heart  of  childhood  is  a  virgin  soil 

All  bright  with  birds,  and  brooks,  and  sunny  showers— 

A  paradise,  whose  vernal  vines  and  flowers 
The  hounds  of  youthful  folly  spurn  and  spoil, 
And  manhood  tears  it  with  the  plow  of  toil, 


Charles  Graham  Hal/pine.  203 


And  builds  thereon  a  city — towers'  of  pride, 

And  temples  for  its  idols,  side  by  side, 
And  streets  jarred  with  the  crash  of  life's  turmoil ; 
But  noble  souls  like  yours,  oh  honored  friends, 

One  pure  bright  fountain  in  the  midst  will  leave, 

All  green-begirt,  like  this,  which  now,  at  eve, 
A  liquid  silver  willow  heavenward  tends, 
Its  murmurous  branches  in  the  moonlight  blends, 
And  to  the  peaceful  scene  a  sweet  enchantment  lends. 


THE  FOUNTAIN. 

TO  W1DEBWAETH  AND   CEEYTON,  BY   CIIAELE8  BROADBEXT. 

Green  wooded  fountain,  with  how  glad  a  rush 
Thou  leapest  up  from  the  surrounding  clay, 
Cleaving  toward  heaven  thy  rainbow-colored  way, 
And  gleaming  brightly  in  the  crimson  flush 
Spread  o'er  the  west !     Anon  the  starry  hush 
Of  night  will  lull  thee,  and  thy  drifted  spray 
No  more  shall  fall,  like  an  alighting  fay, 
On  the  dry  leaves  now  reveling  in  thy  gush ! 
ISay,  friends,  if  Love's  rich  fountain  e'er  shall  fail 
To  fling  its  freshening  waters  from  the  heart, 
In  sorrow's  night  shall  its  loud  tide  depart, 
And  its  bright  plumage  cease  to  fan  the  gale, 
Shall  we,  who  shared  its  noontide,  ever  know 
That  Love,  like  it,  has  but  a  summer  flow  T 


THE  OPIUM  DREAM. 

BY  AN  EATEB  OP  THE  DRUG. 

The  shadows  gather  deeper  round, 
They  come  with  a  tumultuous  sound 
Of  muttering'thunder,  and 'they  swim 
Above  me,  o'er  me,  faint  and  dim. 
A  thousand  forms  of  speechless  dread 
Flap  on  with  slow  wings  o'er  my  head, 
And  slowly  stooping — while  their  eyes 
Dilate  to  an  unnatural  size — 
Let  fall  a  ghastly  funeral  gleam 
Upon  their  own  self-conjured  dream. 

They  come !     They  sail  from  darkness  out, 
A  hideous  and  fantastic  rout — 


204  '  The  Poetical  Works  of. 


Red  eyes  in  every  formless  head, 
Red  clots  upon  the  ghastly  dead, 
Red  robes  on  every  sweltering  corse, 
Red  squadrons,  rider,  rein,  and  horse — 
They  leap  from  the  walls  and  fill  the  air, 
Their  flying  garments  fan  my  hair — 
God !  what  an  icy  touch  was  there ! 

Old  wrinkled  women,  in  russet  clad, 

Advancing  silently  and  sad — 

Old  wrinkled  women,  whose  gleaming  eyes 

Hint  of  immortal  agonies, 

Peeping  from  under  each  shadowy  hood 

Like  phosphor  sparks  in  a  rotten  wood. 

Stealthy  and  silent  the  beldames  all 

Creep  up  the  perpendicular  wall, 

And,  turning,  drop  in  my  lidless  eyes 

Their  own  unspeakable  agonies. 

Oh,  tide  of  doubt  and  utter  woe, 
Horrible  tide,  that  lies  below 
The  unsounded  sea  of  waking  thought — 
Dim  tide  with  every  monster  fraught — 
While  others,  nor  more  pure  nor  strong, 
Hear  in  their  sleep  the  seraph's  song, 
And  mount,  as  ne'er  awake  they  rose, 
Superior  to  our  common  woes — 
What  weird,  magnetic  spell  is  thine, 
That  drags  me  to  your  hateful  brine 
Whene'er  my  weai-ied  Reason  lowers 
Her  strained  hands  from  the  burning  oars  ? 


VENICE'S  NEW  CHANCE. 

The  hands  that  moved  on  Freedom's  clock 

Already  strike  the  appointed  hour ; 
The  tocsin  sounds,  the  people  flock, 

Majestic  in  their  banded  power. 
Italia  wakes !     From  town  to  town 

The  leaders  cry  "  To  arms !  obey  us !" 
The  Austrian  sword,  the  papal  crown, 

Reel  on  the  verge  of  chaos. 

Up  !  all  who  bear  the  Latin  heart ; 

Up !  all  who  love  the  vengeful  joy  ; 
Let  your  fierce  wrath  like  lightning  dart 

Upon  the  tyrants,  and  destroy ! 


Charles  Graham  Halpine.  205 


Up !  from  the  Tiber  to  the  Arve ; 

Let  Insurrection's  tocsin  toll, 
While  wea.poned  arms  united  carve 

A  path  for  the  free  soul. 

Let  Austria's  cut-throat  legions  learn 

To  feel  and  fear  the  Roman  rage ; 
Let  the  fierce  pontiff's  eyes  discern 

The  dawn  of  the  millennial  age. 
Tell  fratricidal  France  her  hordes 

No  more  shall  bid  Italia  weep ; 
Reap  a  full  harvest  with  your  swords, 

And  garner  what  you  reap ! 

Up,  Latins !  by  the  foulest  wrongs 

That  ever  suffering  manhood  bore ; 
By  ruffian  steel  and  priestly  thongs 

Imbued  in  patriot  gore ; 
By  every  scaffold  through  the  land ; 

By  dungeons,  vault,  and  leprous  spy 
Up !  up !  and  with  an  armed  hand 

Strike  down  this  living  lie. 

No  more  be  scourged  by  priestly  cords 

No  more  be  ruled  by  foreign  steel, 
No  more  be  robbed  by  foreign  lords — 

Arise !  the  tyrants  reel. 
Expect  no  mercy,  breathe  no  sigh 

In  this  last  desperate  throe  for  life ; 
Let  "  Death  or  Victory !"  be  the  cry, 

And  war  unto  the  knife. 


TO  LAURA— SINGING. 

A  breathless  hush  is  in  the  hall, 

A  silence  deep  as  death  ; 
The  sculptured  cherubs  on  the  wall 

Appear  to  hold  their  breath, 
While  floating  forth  in  silvery  strain 

Thy  voice  rings  clear  and  high, 
Now  filled  with  passion's  rapturous  pain, 

Now  lost  in  sorrow's  sigh. 

Ah !  Lady  Laura,  such  a  tone 

As  thine  is  seldom  fyeard ; 
So  lightly  breathed,  so  quickly  flown, 

And  yet  how  deep  it  stirred 


200  The  Poetical  Works  of 


Those  chords  of  feeling  that  have  lain 

Unmoved  and  silent  long, 
Now  roused  again  in  heart  and  brain 

By  thy  awakening  song. 

Thy  thoughts  into  the  music  flow, 

And  mingle  with  its  tide, 
And  thou  dost  share  the  poet's  woe, 

Or  feel  the  poet's  pride. 
Thy  genius,  like  the  crystal  spring, 

Reflects  each  passing  form, 
If  rosy  boughs  above  it  swing, 

Or  drifts  the  wintry  storm. 

I've  heard,  and  yet  again  would  hear 

The  music  of  thy  tongue : 
Entranced  in  pleasure,  eye  and  ear, 

My  soul  upon  thee  hung. 
Thy  voice,  like  the  old  Hebrew's  rod 

Stretched  o'er  the  prisoning  sea, 
Kolls  back  the  dark  and  shadowy  flood, 

Making  our  spirits  free. 


OH,  WANTON  WIND. 

Oh,  wanton  wind,  world-kissing  kind, 

Thy  zephyrs  twined  my  Laura's  tresses ; 
Bathed  lip  and  hand  with  fragrance  bland, 

And  even  fanned  those  deep  recesses 
Where  love  is  seen — warm  couched,  serene —    * 

A  rose-leaf  dropped  on  summer  billows. 
Oh,  heedless  wind,  to  beauty  blind, 

Where  couldst  thou  find  more  tempting  pillows  ? 

The  lily  bell,  whose  anthers  tell 

The  time  so  well,  by  you  set  ringing ; 
The  rival  rose,  wherein  repose 

Queen  Mab,  and  those  unto  her  clinging — 
The  violet  sweet,  the  daisy  neat — 

Should  I  repeat  each  fragrant  blossom — 
Oh,  careless  wind,  could  all  combined 

So  please  thy  mind  as  Laura's  bosom  ? 

Insensate  still !  hence — hence  and  fill 

The  idle  sail  of  yon  bright  vessel ; 
And  yet — ah  stay !  ere  hence  you  stray, 

Leave  me,  I  pray,  your  right  to  nestle  ; 


Charles  Graham  If  alpine.  207 


Give  me  to  seek  her  damask  cheek, 

And,  whispering,  speak  what  thou  ne'er  dreamest ; 
For  me  to  lie  one  moment  nigh 

Her  heart,  and  die,  were  bliss  supremest. 


ADVERTISEMENT  EXTRAORDINARY.31 

Lost,  a  politician's  wallet, 
Portmonnaie,  or  what-you- call-it, 

And  the  happy  man  who  .saw 
What  the  fate  that  did  befall  it 

May  on  RUFUS  ANDREWS  draw 
For  a*  place — a  sinecure — 
Worth  two  thousand  dollars  sure ; 
Yea,  to  this  snug  sum  each  year 
He  can  "read  his  title  clear." 

'Twas  a  pocket-book  mysterious, 
Filled  with  papers  jocund,  serious, 
Business,  social,  patriotic, 
Journalistic  and  erotic ; 
Plans  of  caucus  and  Convention 
Swelled  its  bulk  beyond  dimension ; 
Every  kind  of  scrip  and  docket 
Found  its  place  in  THURLOW'S  pocket ; 
But  the  book  is  lost,  and  we 
Search  for  its  recovery. 

It  contained  a  note  from  GREELEY, 
Asking  THURLOW  ' '  if  he  really 
Had  decided  as  to  who 
Should  be  suddenly  put  through 
For  BILL  SEWARD'S  vacant  shoe  ? 
GREELEY  was  prepared  to  take  it 
If  all  right '  my  lord'  could  make  it ; 
And  he  then  no  more  would  tramp 
In  the  wake  of  any  scamp  ; 
But  he  wanted  '  Yes'  or  '  No,' 
That  he  might  be  governed  so." 

Then  there  came  a  note  from  RAYMOND, 
With  a  sort  of  oblique  aim  and  • 
Purpose  cautiously  suppressed : 
He  in  Paris  wished  to  rest, 
And  for  consul  would  be  glad 
If  LORD  THURLOW'S  aid  he  had : 


208  The  Poetical  Works  of 


"  The  prospects  of  the  times  were  bad — 
Very  dismal,  very  sad ; 
But  whate'er  the  Times  could  do 
Of  service — zealous,  constant,  true — 
LORD  THURLOW  might  make  up  his  mind 
He  ever  in  its  page  should  find, 
If  he  to  SEWARD  a  word  would  slip 
For  RAYMOND'S  Paris  consulship." 

And  next  there  came — that  we  should  pen  it — 

A  sharp,  clear  note  from  J.  G.  BENNETT  : 

"French  mission  wanted — circulation 

Larger  than  any  in  the  nation — 

Why  is  the  weak,  dull  DAYTON  sent 

To  where  wit  rates  at  cent,  per  cent., 

Wilh  PENNINGTON  for  his  secretary, 

Who,  when  they  speak  French,  answers  '  Nary  ?' 

The  administration  then  may  sway 

The  Herald's  influence  day  by  day, 

And  THDRLOW,  without  cost  of  dollar, 

Become  '  a  gentleman  and  scholar.'  " 

This  note  from  CDMMINGS — short  and  sweet — 

"  The  World,  my  lord,  is  at  your  feet ; 

Its  empty  columns  gape  to  find 

The  astute  impress  of  your  mind ; 

But  don't  let  CAMERON  dispose 

Of  all  the  jobs  in  army  clothes, 

Rations  and  weapons,  transportation — 

The  royal  profits  of  the  nation — 

Without  remembering  mine  and  me, 

Stanchest  of  all  your  friends,  A.C." 

Dozens  of  other  papers  were 

Confided  to  the  lost  book's  care, 

All  equally  of  weight  with  those 

The  drift  of  which  we  here  disclose. 

Now  who,  by  any  "crook"  or  "hook," 

Can  find  for  us  this  wondrous  book, 

And  gain  at  WEED  an  "inside"  look ? 

Who  can  reveal  to  after  ages 

The  curious  secrets  of  its  pages, 

And  let  us  know  how  THURLOW  noted 

The  schemes  which  round  his  path  have  floated  ? 


Charles  Graham  Halpine.  209 


MY  DOVE  IN  HER  NEST. 

' '  Nay,  your  wine  will  make  me  heady ; 
We  have  ta'en  enough  already ; 
Let  us  go  while  we  are  steady ; 

Do  not  stir — I  know  my  way. " 
So  I  lit  my  chamber  candle, 
Sought  my  room,  and  turned  the  handle — 
Lady  togs,  from  ruff  to  sandal, 

Loose  across  the  lounger  lay. 

"  Heavens !"  I  cried,  alarmed  and  shaken, 
' '  Surely  I  have  been  mistaken  ; 
If  the  sleeping  beauty  waken, 

What  excuse  for  me  remains  ?" 
Fear  the  dangerous  joy  enhances,     . 
Love  with  eager  step  advances — 
Oh,  the  dreams,  the  languors,  trances, 

Throbbing  in  my  dove's  young  veins. 

Blissful  watch  above  her  keeping, 
Angels  guard  their  sister  sleeping — 
Would  they  wake  her  should  a  peeping, 

Bearded  mortal  ope  the  door  ? 
Cautiously  a  pace  advancing, 
Round  the  rose-silk  draperies  glancing — 
Oh !  the  sight  divine,  entrancing, 

Haunts  my  dreams  for  evermore. 

Flushed  as  May's  young  wealth  of  roses, 
Laura  on  the  couch  reposes, 
And  the  billowy  snow  discloses 

Outlines  worth  a  sculptor's  note : 
Tresses  loose — a  golden  wonder — 
Crimson  lips  that  smile  asunder, 
And  one  small  hand  creeping  under 

The  crisp  lace  which  fringed  her  throat. 

Now  a  kiss  were  easy  stealing, 
But  I  dared  not  trust  the  feeling, 
For  my  very  soul  seemed  reeling 

In  the  fullness  of  her  view ; 
So  I  bowed  my  head  and  blessed  her, 
Prayed  the  angel  host  to  rest  her, 
Softly  said,  "  Sweet  dreams,  fair  sister !" 

And  from  that  small  heaven  withdrew. 

14 


210  The  Poetical  Works  of 


A  BRACE  OF  SONNETS, 

DEDICATED   TO  PROFESSOR   WIDE8WAETU  BY   CHARLES   BKOADBENT. 
I. 

Oh,  Wideswarth !     Feebly  in  these  latter  days 

We  seek  to  build  the  imperial  sonnet's  throne, 

Monarch  of  verse  and  poesie :  the  tone 
Of  modern  converse  ill  can  reach  the  lays 
Which  bound  old  Petrarch  with  immortal  bays, 

And  gave  him  o'er  this  rhythm  to  rule  alone. 

Milton,  who  drank  his  spirit,  and  made  known 
To  our  rough  tongue  the  harmony  that  plays 
And  lightens  o'er  the  undivided  thought 

'  Of  this  intensest  poetry,  hath  shown 
How  near  the  rude  Norse  utterance  may  be  brought 
To  the  soft  music  in  Italia  wrought. 

And  thou — alas !  to  mockery  sometimes  prone — 
A  portion  of  the  melody  hast  caught. 

II. 

And  I  have  listened  gladly  to  thy  strain, 

And  thrilled  in  spirit  to  the  solemn  swell 

Of  music  poured  from  >  out  the  rosy  shell 
Which  some  pale  muse  had  touched — nor  touched  in  vain- 
With  her  white  feet  when  wandering  on  in  pain 

Of  meditation  through  the  sea-worn  cell ; 

Her  white  brows  knit,  and  crowned  with  asphodel 
Gathered  by  moonlight  on  the  breezy  plain 
Which  skirts  Parnassus ;  and  I  wondered  how 

Thy  soul  could  deem  so  lightly  of  the  spell 
With* which  Apollo  had  adorned  thy  brow 
(Still  niggard  to  my  prayer  and  earnest  vow) 

As  to  enweave  the  silken-threaded  muse 
With  darning-cotton,  such  as  housewives  nee.         • 


THE  TROPIC  BIRD. 

Not  of  our  forests  art  thou !     Here  the  cold 
Of  winter  soon  would  mar 

Thy  glittering  plumage— from  afar, 
From  lands  of  gold, 


Charles  Graham  Halpine.  211 


And  from  the  streams  that  roll  along  beneath 

The  quivering  lotus  bowers, 
Where  spreads  the  palm,  and  amaranthine  flowers 

In  blushing  wreath 
Aye  greet  the  kisses  of  the  Eastern  dawn, 

Comest  thou  to  us,  bright  bird. 
I  envy  not  his  heart  who,  all  unstirred, 

Can  look  upon 
Thy  glittering  wing,  nor  give  his  fancy  rein 

To  tropic  shore  and  glowing  sky, 
Streams,  temples,  woods,  and  with  a  sigh 

Receive  it  back  again. 
For  me,  I  look  on  thee,  and  in  a  dream, 

Before  the  gazing  eye, 
The  gorgeous  pageant  of  the  East  rolls  by 

On  Ganges'  stream. 
Gem-studded  galleys,  and  the  crimson  slaves 

(Their  tunics  woven  o'er 
With  sapphire  studs  and  braids  of  yellow  ore), 

The  cedar  waves 
Her  emerald  boughs  above  them  ;  and  on  high, 

Throned  on  the  ivory  poop, 
The  swarthy  sultan,  with  a  hoop 

That  well  might  buy 
Our  barren  kingdoms  on  his  ample  brow ; 

And  those  young  Georgian  girls — 
The  raven  tresses  looped  with  sparkling  pearls — 

Before  him  bow, 
All  duteous  to  his  nod.     The  silver  oars 

Flash  as  they  hurry  on 
The  peopled  argosies !     'Tis  gone ! 

The  purple  shores 
Are  silent,  save  the  speechless  melody 

Poured  from  the  myrtle  bowers. 
What  is't  to  me  that  here  the  hours 

Of  daylight  flee? 


A  VALENTINE. 

TO  DOU.Y  B ,  TEN  YKAE8  OLD. 

On  this  pleasant  day,  dear  Dolly, 
When,  from  young  Love's  lips, 

Touched  by  sweet  Saint  Valentine, 
The  bond  of  silence  slips  ; 


212  The  Poetical  Works  of 


Now,  when  'tis  allowed  us 

All  our  hearts  to  bare 
At  your  modest  maiden  shrine, 
Thus  I  kneel  and  swear : 

•    "  Hear  and  heed  me,  Dolly, 

I  pledge  my  love  to-day, 
And  when  you  come  to  womanhood, 
Oh,  then  the  debt  repay." 

The  bright  glad  hours  of  girlhood, 

The  frolic  soul  that  trips 
On  silvery  feet  o'er  rosy  paths — 

The  pure  and  laughing  lips ; 
The  golden  curls,  the  mantling  blush, 
The  blue  and  sinless  eyes —  , 

Oh,  never  may  the  future  bid 
A  cloud  o'er  these  arise. 

"  But  hear  and  heed  me,  Dolly, 

I  pledge  my  heart  to-day, 
And  when  you  come  to  womanhood, 
Oh,  then  the  debt  repay. " 

Each  year,  while  ripening  beauty 
Gives  roundness  to  your  form ; 
When  the  heart  now  full  of  gayety 

Grows  softer  and  more  warm ; 
When  your  blush  hath  deeper  meaning, 

And  your  eyes  are  darker  hued, 
Again,  before  your  altar-shrine, 
This  pledge  shall  be  renewed : 

"  So  hear  and  heed  me,  Dolly, 

My  heart  is  thine  to-day, 
And  when  you  come  to  womanhood, 
Oh,  then  the  debt  repay." 


MY  SOUL  IS  SAD. 

NEW  VERSION. 

My  soul  is  sad !     Oh,  quickly  bring 

The  cup  I  yet  can  love  to  drain, 
And  let  its  fragrant  sweetness  fling 

Delicious  languor  round  my  brain. 
If  in  this  heart  one  joke  remain,  ' 

The  cup  shall  charm  it  into  line ; 
If  there  be  any  balm  for  pain, 

It  is — it  is  in  glorious  wine. 


Charles  Graham  Halpine.  213 


But  bid  the  cup  at  first  be  mild, 

Nor  let  its  strength  come  on  too  soon ; 
I  tell  thee,  waiter,  I  have  smiled 

At  least  a  dozen  times  since  noon. 
And  now  I  ask  of  thee  a  boon 

(Here — take  this  quarter  for  your  trouble) — 
Do  you  observe  a  double  moon, 

Or  is  it  I  that  now  "see  double?" 


MORE  LIGHT. 

More  light — more  light — more  light ! 
This  is  the  cry  of  unhappy  humanity, 
This  is  the  prayer  of  poor  blinded  humanity, 
Groping  in  passion,  in  pain,  and  inanity 
Round  the  bleak  walls  of  the  prison  of  vanity — 
Every  where  seeking  a  ray  of  divinity, 
Every  where  finding  the  terrible  trinity ! 
Darkness,  and  dolor,  and  doubt  inexpressible — 
Numbness,  and  dumbness,  and  pain  inexpressible — 
Doubts  irrepressible,  woes  unendurable, 
Tears  that  fall  laughingly,  smiles  that  are  sorrowful ; 
Longings  and  gleams  of  superior  existences, 
Voices  that  whisper  from  infinite  distances — 
Mystical  distances — soul-haunted  distances — 
Beauty  that  flings  back  the  folds  of  a  cerement, 
Skeletons  veiled  in  the  garments  of  merriment, 
All  that  is  exquisite,  all  that  is  wonderful, 
Earth  a  vast  theatre,  over  and  under  full — 
Full  to  the  brim  of  discordant  existences, 
Matter  and  spirit,  and  powers  and  resistances — 
Every  where  opposites  :  anguish  and  levity, 
Mortal  reality,  hoped  immortality, 
Art  for  long  years,  and  man's  life  but  a  brevity. 
Oh,  in  this  shadowed  and  whispering  night, 
This  mystical  stage  with  its  curtain  of  night, 
Grant  us  Thy  wisdom — Thy  comfort — Thy  light — 
Grant  us  more  light,  or  we  perish. 


PHILIP  AND  I. 

You,  asking  me  how  Philip  fared, 
Received  reply  that  he  and  I, 
Some  years  ago,  had  said  good-by, 

Since  which  I  neither  knew  nor  cared. 


The  Poetical  Works  of 


It  was  a  peevish  answer,  spoken 
In  bitter  sorrow  and  regret 
That  such  a  brilliant,  brightly  set 

As  was  our  friendship,  should  be  broken. 

Shattered  with  purpose  fell  and  strong, 
Without  the  warning  of  a  word — 
An  arrow  whistling  through  a  bird, 

Even  while  her  throat  was  full  of  song. 

Happy  her  fate  !     The  spirit  winging 
Ere  sense  of  treachery  or  pain 
Can  reach  conception  in  the  brain, 

She  dies  within  the  act  of  singing. 

So  the  shrill  shaft  which  sudden  cast 
Our  dream  of  friendship  to  the  ground, 
Of  its  dread  coming  gave  no  sound, 

But  smote  and  shattere'd — and  was  past. 

One  moment  in  amaze  I  stood, 
Thinking — it  can  but  be  in  jest ! 
Another,  and  within  my  breast 

The  laboring  heart  gave  sobs  of  blood. 

Less  happy  than  the  bird,  I  live 

To  know  the  treachery,  bear  the  pain, 
And  feel  that  on  this  earth  again 

Such  friendship  I  no  more  can  give. 

So  to  your  quest  how  Philip  fared, 
I  made  reply  that  he  and  I, 
Some  years  ago,  had  said  good-by, 

Since  which  I  neither  knew  nor  cared. 


FORENSIC  ELOQUENCE— A  PORTRAIT. 

"What  is  the  secret  of  your  friend  Brady's  success  T' —Query  in  a  private 
Utter. 

.  .      Not  with  fast-flashing  volleys  of  vain  speech 
Fired  off  at  random,  and  revealing  naught 
But  verbiage  used  to  hide  the  want  of  thought — 
Mere  summer- thunder — the  kind  schoolmen  teach — 
And  never  to  a  definite  purpose  wrought ; 

But  with  most  apt  precision,  and  a  tongue 

Linked  in  such  harmony  with  the  weighing  brain 
That  every  phrase  is  balanced  there  again, 

Dropping  like  gold  on  truth's  own  touchstone  rung — 
Results  arrived  at  by  a  perfect  chain : 


Cliarles  Graham  Halpine.  215 


Quick  sympathy  with  every  trait  and  touch 
Reflected  in  the  natures  round  him  brought, 
And  an  assimilating  power  of  thought 

So  like  our  own,  we  let  it  pass  for  such, 

Priding  ourselves  as  teachers  when  but  taught. 

One  other  power — an  undecaying  flame 
Of  human  charity— soft,  religious  warmth ; 
Never  was  wreck  but  tells  him  of  some  storm ; 

And,  pitying  what  his  judgment  yet  must  blame, 
He  sees  God's  image  in  the  meanest  form. 

These  are  the  weapons  wielded  by  my  friend— 
These,  and  an  orderly,  analytic  mind, 
Grouping  strong  facts  beneath  the  heads  assigned, 

And  making  all  to  one  conclusion  tend : 
Ears  to  the  deaf,  and  eyesight  to  the  blind. 


A  VISIT. 

Ah  me !  how  time  doth  gallop  now 
With  headlong  stride  and  pace ; 

But  yesterday  thy  youthful  brow, 
And  gentle  girlish  face, 

Were  set  in  memory  like  a  gem 

Worn  in  some  queenly  diadem. 

How  changed  to  me  the  picture  seems 

In  tinting,  shape,  and  air ; 
The  child  I  thought  of  in  my  dreams 

Now  smiles  a  woman  fair ; 
And  while  her  graceful  form  I  see, 
The  past  seems  but  an  hour  to  me. 

A  light  heart  glows  within  thee  still, 
Though  not  exempt  from  pain ; 

And  Nature,  in  her  task  to  fill, 
Let  all  thy  youth  remain, 

And  gave  thee,  with  a  woman's  form, 

A  charm  to  keep  all  friendship  warm. 

Since  last  in  by-gone  years  we  met, 
How  many  hopes  are  fled! 

What  joys  we  think  of  with  regret, 
To  all  save  memory  dead  ; 

l?ut  with  our  being  still  will  dwell 

The  magic  of  their  holy  spell. 


216  The  Poetical  Works  of 


Thus  may  the  future  yet  reveal 

New  joys  to  equal  those, 
And  o'er  our  spirits  too  may  steal 

The  bliss  of  calm  repose, 
Coming  like  gentle  summer  showers 
To  give  new  life  to  drooping  flowers. 


THE  TROOPER  TO  HIS  MARE. 

Old  girl,  that  hast  borne  me  far  and  fast 

On  pawing  hoofs  that  were  never  loth, 
Our  gallop  to-day  may  be  the  last 

For  thee  or  for  me — or  perchance  for  both. 
As  I  tighten  your  girth,  do  you  nothing  daunt — 

Do  you  catch  the  hint  of  our  forming  line  ? 
And  now  the  artillery  move  to  the  front, 

Have  you  never  a  qualm,  Bay  Bess  of  mine? 

It  is  dainty  to  see  you  sidle  and  start 

As  you  move  to  the  battle's  cloudy  marge, 
And  to  feel  the  swells  of  your  wakening  heart 

When  our  cavalry  bugles  sound  a  charge. 
At  the  scream  of  the  shell  and  the  roll  of  the  <lrum 

You  feign  to  be  frightened  with  skittish  glance, 
But  up  the  green  slopes  where  the  bullets  hum, 

Coquettishly,  darling,  I've  known  you  dance. 

Your  skin  is  satin,  your  nostrils  red, 

Your  eyes  are  a  bird's  or  a  loving  girl's ; 
And  from  delicate  fetlock  to  dainty  head 

A  throbbing  vein-cordage  around  you  curls. 
i^Oh,  joy  of  my  soul !  if  you  they  slay, 

For  triumph  or  rout  I  little  care ; 
For  there  is  not  in  all  the  wide  valley  to-day 

Such  a  dear  little  bridle-wise,  thorough-bred  mare. 


BREVET  RANK.32 

TO   THE   SENATORS   OF   THE  TTNITED   STATES. 

To  Sheridan's  heroes  and  Sherman's  men, 

And  the  bull-dogs  of  Grant  who  drove  Lee  from  his  den, 

Give  brevet  promotions  of  honor ;  and  then 

Find  some  foul  detective,  some  leprous  spy, 

His  labors  a  loathing,  his  life  but  a  lie, 


Charles  Graham  Halpine.  217 


Some  wretch  who  hath  planned  half  the  crimes  he  exposed, 

Chief  plotter  himself  of  the  plots  he  disclosed, 

And  place  on  his  shoulders — not  cowhide  thongs, 

But  the  brevet  which  rightly  to  honor  belongs  ; 

And  when  this  you  have  done,  will  your  brevets  then 

On  Sheridan's  heroes  and  Sherman's  me.n, 

And  the  bull-dogs  of  Grant  who  drove  Lee  from  his  den, 

Sit  proudly  as  trophies  they  won  in  the  fray, 

Or  shrivel  to  shameful  mementoes  away  ? 

Oh,  think  of  it,  senators  !     Thousands  have  died, 

Pouring  out  their  young  lives  in  an  eager,  tide, 

While  to  win  this  prize  of  honor  they  vied ; 

And  this  prize — past  price — can  you  now  degrade 

To  a  badge  of  the  mouchard's  odious  trade  ? 

If  the  spy  hath  done  well,  pay  him  store  of  gold — 

By  thousands,  or  fifties  of  thousands  told  ; 

Or  should  you  lack  means  his  reward  to  defray, 

Take  all  that  we  have — our  last  dollar  of  pay, 

But  leave  us  the  honor  our  swords  have  won 

As  a  glory  to  boast,  not  a  shame  to  shun  ; 

Nor  bid  Sheridan's  heroes  and  Sherman's  men, 

And  the  bull-dogs  of  Grant  who  drove  Lee  from  his  den, 

On  their  straps,  as  a  blistering  symbol  to  bear, 

What  this  human  sleuth-hound  is'  free  to  share. 


GENERAL  ORDERS  OF  THE  CITIZEN. 

GENERAL   ORT>ER  NO.  I. 

A  paragraph  to  make  one  laugh 
Should  be  of  ten  lines  just  a  half; 
A  trivial  theme — a  brilliant  stream 
Of  verbiage,  metaphor,  and  dream — 
Such  as  this  paragraph,  I  deem. 

A  stirring  song  is  never  long, 
But  must  be  fiery,  terse,  and  strong, 
With  much  of  thought,  not  fully  wrought, 
But  in  quick  glimpses  shown  and  caught : 
Such  are  the  rules  Bob  Burns  has  taught. 

A  good  critique  should  ever  seek 

To  check  the  proud  and  help  the  weak  ; 

Not  swayed  by  fame,  nor  prone  to  blame — 

Calm,  energetic — never  tame — 

And  free  from  mercenary  shame. 

K 


218  The  Poetical  Works  of 


A  tale  or  sketch  should  never  fetch 
Its  hero  from  thy  hand,  Jack  Ketch  ; 
Though  for  a  time  the  tide  of  crime 
Roll  down  white-crested  and  sublime, 
It  leaves  a  track  of  venomed  slime. 

In  short,  be  brief.     Each  added  leaf 
Is  so  much  to  your  reader's  grief  5 
The  point  is  gone  ;  the  lightning  shone 
And  dies  while  yet  we  labor  on  ; 
True  wit  ne'er  knows  a  second  dawn. 

Observe  these  rules,  and  mock  the  schools 
Of  composition  taught  by  fools. 
Briefness  and  wit  together  fit, 
And  fly,  like  Parthians,  when  they  hit — 
The  urchins  are  too  wise  to  sit. 

By  order  of  the  Editor  commanding. 

JOHN  JONES,  Lieut.  Col.  and  A.A.G. 


TRUTH  IN  PARENTHESIS,  OR  THE  FORTUNE-HUNTER. 

I  love — oh,  more  than  words  can  tell 

(Your  ninety  thousand  golden  shiners)  ; 
You  draw  me  by  a  nameless  spell 

(As  California  draws  the  miners) ; 
You  are  so  rich  in  beauty's  dower 

(And  rich  in  several  ways  beside  it), 
Had  I  your  hand  within  my  power 

(Across  a  banker's  draft  to  guide  it), 
No  care  my  future  life  could  dim 
(My  tailor,  too — what  joy  to  him  I). 

Oh,  should  you  change  your  name  for  mine 

(I've  given  my  name — on  bills — to  twenty), 
Existence  were  a  dream  divine 

(At  least  so  long  as  cash  was  plenty)  ; 
Our  home  should  be  a  sylvan  grot 

(Bath,  billiard,  smoking-room,  and  larder), 
And  there,  forgetting  and  forgot 

(My  present  need,  I'd  live  the  harder), 
Our  days  should  pass  in  fresh  delights 
(Lethargic  days,  but  roaring  nights). 

Oh  say,  my  young,  my  fawn-like  girl 

(She's  old  enough  to  be  my  mother), 
Let  "Yes"oerleap  those  gates  of  pearl 

(My  laughter  it  is  hard  to  smother) ; 


Charles  Graham  Halpine. 


Let  lips  that  Love  hath  formed  for  joy 
(For  joy  if  they  her  purse  resign  me) 

Long  hesitate  ere  they  destroy 

(And  to  a  debtor's  jail  consign  me) 

The  heart  that  beats  but  to  adore 

(Yourself  the  less,  your  fortune  more). 

Consent — consent,  my  priceless  love 

(Her  price  precise  is  ninety  thousand) ; 
I  swear  by  all  around,  above 

(Her  purse-strings  now,  I  feel,  are  loosened), 
I  have  not  loved  you  for  your  wealth 

(Nor  loved  at  all,  as  I'm  a  sinner) ; 
Oh  bliss !  you  yield  ;  one  kiss  by  stealth ! 

(I'm  sick — that  kiss  has  spoiled  my  dinner)  ; 
Now  early  name  the  blissful  day 
(My  duns  grow  clamorous  for  their  pay). 


THIRD  ODE,  FOURTH  BOOK  OF  HORACE 

Him  on  whose  humble  birth  a  gentle  light, 
•     ()  Muse !  you  shed,  no  wrestling-prize  may  win, 
No  war-steed  bear  him  in  the  triumph  bright, 
Nor  shall  his  voice  be  heard  above  the  din 
Of  armed  hosts  ;  for  him  no  laurel  springs 
From  threats  hurled  back  on  subjugated  kings. 

But  where  through  Tibur's  vale  sweet  waters  flow, 
Amid  dense  bowers  of  thickly  shadowing  leaves, 
'  There  shall  his  brow  beneath  dark  ivy  glow 

As  his  wild  harp  the  vEolian  measure  weaves  ; 
For  queenly  Rome  hath  deigned  to  hear  his  song, 
Nor  envy  dares  to  do  him  farther  wrong. 

Oh,  gentle  Muse,  whose  fingers  modulate 
The  dulcet  music  of  the  golden  shell — 

Thou  whom  from  dumb  fishes  even  canst  create 
Such  notes  as  from  the  dying  cygnet  swell, 

It  is  your  gift  that  I  can  touch  the  lyre, 

While  those  who  pass  me  hearken  and  admire. 

'Tis  by  thy  gift — oh  bounteous  beyond  measure — 
That  I  to  strangers  as  a  bard  am  known ; 

Yea,  that  I  live,  and  that  my  songs  give  pleasure 
(If  please  they  do),  the  praise  is  thine  alone, 

For  thou  hast  given  his  all  of  poet-fire 

To  thy  poor  stringer  of  the  Roman  lyre. 


220  The  Poetical  Works  of 


IGDRASIL. 

The  tree  of  life,  that  shone  so  fair 

In  spring's  alternate  shine  and  shower, 
What  bitter  fruit  its  branches  bear — 

How  soon  'tis  stripped  of  leaf  and  flower, 
As  if  athwart  the  sheltering  glade 

Had  swept  the  pestilent  simoom ; 
Nor  ever  more  beneath  its  shade 

Shall  violet  ope  or  primrose  bloom. 

No  more  beneath  its  spreading  leaves 

Shall  weary  lambs  at  noontide  throng, 
While  overhead  the  linnet  weaves 

The  silken  tenor  of  his  song. 
No  more  the  pale  and  sorrowing  moon 

Her  dewy  tears  above  it  weep  ; 
No  more  at  night's  unbroken  noon 

Shall  Muse  beneath  its  branches  sleep. 

For  blight  hath  fallen  on  bud  and  leaf, 

And  turned  its  fruitful  sap  to  gall, 
And,  mildewed  in  the  showers  of  grief, 

It  totters  to  an  early  fall. 
The  bough  the  redbreast  used  to  love 

Now  nightly  hears  the  owlet  hoot — 
The  locust  gnaws  the  leaves  above, 

The  cankerworm  is  at  the  root. 

Then  shall  it  fall,  and  leave  behind 

No  record  of  the  brighter  past, 
Uprooted  by  the  idle  wind, 

And  whirled  away  upon  the  blast. 
Forfend  it,  Heaven!  a  soil  too  warm 

Hath  nursed  this  plague ;  transplant  it  now 
Where  drifting  rain  and  eddying  storm 

May  purge  the  root  and  cleanse  the  bough. 

And  Hope — who  long  had  listened  mute — 

Now  raised  her  azure  eyes  and  smiled ; 
•  She  whispered  low  of  future  fruit, 

And  pointed  to  the  distant  wild. 
Oh.  bear  it  thither  ;  trust  in  God  ; 

Have  faith  in  my  prophetic  words — 
Again  'twill  spread  its  arms  abroad, 

And  shelter  its  deserted  birds. 


Charles  Graham  Halpine.  221 


THE  FENIAN  SCARE. 

Half  in  terror,  half  in  wonder, 

Johnny  Bull,  with  open  mouth, 
Just  begins  to  feel  the  blunder 

Of  his  favor  to  the  South ; 
And  he  sees,  wherever  turning 

His  distraught  and  haggard  view, 
Minatory  meteors  burning 

In  our  banner's  field  of  blue  ; 
And  within  the  panorama 

Which  foretells  his  flag's  eclipse, 
He  beholds  the  Alabama 

And  her  kindred  pirate-ships ; 
And  he  sees  the  Fenians  reaching 

To  assault  him  in  his  lair — 
And,  his  own  bad  conscience  preaching, 

This  explains  "  the  Fenian  scare." 


AN  ANTI-MAINE-LAW  LYRIC. 
Air:  "  The  Old  Oaken  Bucket"    ' 

How  dear  to  the  heart  is  the  bottle  of  brandy, 

When  fond  recollection  presents  it  to  view, 
As  it  stood  in  the  cupboard,  so  neat  and  so  handy, 

With  its  neck  tapered  off,  and  its  belly  of  blue! 
The  old  cottage  walls  are  now  crumbling  to  pieces, 

As  I,  who  am  old,  must  soon  crumble  myself, 
But  ah !  every  woe  and  embitterment  ceases 

When  I  think  on  the  bottle  that  stood  on  the  shelf— 
The  big-bellied  bottle — the  taper-necked  bottle — 

The  bottle  of  brandy  that  stood  on  the  shelf. 

The  loosely-corked  bottle,  I  held  it  a  treasure. 

For  often,  when  weary  I  came  from  the  field, 
I  found  it  the  source  of  an  exquisite  pleasure — 

Such  pleasure  as  brandy  and  weariness  yield. 
In  a  moment  I  seized  it,  and,  hastily  bringing 

Some  spice  from  the  closet,  I  mixed  me  a  bowl, 
And  soon  was  my  weariness  changed  into  singing, 

And  the  dust  of  rny  labor  was  washed  from  my  soul 
By  the  big-bellied  bottle — the  taper-necked  bottle — 

The  bottle  of  brandy  that  stood  on  the  shelf. 


222  The  Poetical  Works  of 


How  sweet  from  the  thin  crystal  brim  to  receive  it, 

As  I  turned  up  my  finger  and  moistened  my  lips ; 
Not  a  fountain  of  diamonds  could  tempt  me  to  leave  if, 

Nor  all  the  cold  water  that  lies  under  ships  ; 
And  still,  though  in  Maine  is  my  present  location, 

And  although  'tis  a  good,  one  for  gathering  pelf, 
As  fancy  reverts  to  the  ruby  temptation, 

I  sigh  for  the  bottle  that  stood  on  the  shelf — 
For  the  big-bellied  bottle— the  loosely- corked  bottle — 

The  gurgling  blue  bottle  that  stood  on  the  shelf. 


PARTANT  POUR  LA  SYRIE. 

\ 

FROM   THE   FKENCU. 

Dunois,  the  young  and  gallant, 

For  Syria  sailing  soon, 
Prayed  to  the  Virgin  Mary 
.   That  she  would  grant  his  boon : 
"Grant,  Mary,  thou  who  savest, 

Immortal  Queen! "he  cried, 
"That  I  may  be  the  bravest, 

And  win  the  loveliest  bride." 

Upon  her  shrine  engraven 

His  prayer  forever  shone, 
And,  with  his  lord  to  battle, 

Dunois  rushed  bravely  on ; 
And,  to  that  good  oath  steady, 

This  charging  cry  he  gave : 
"  Love  to  the  fairest  lady, 

And  honor  to  the  brave !" 

His  lord  cried,  "All  the  triumph 

Is  thine,  Dunois,  I  swear ; 
And  as  you  have  given  me  conquest. 

Thy  fortune  is  my  care. 
My  daughter  Isabella, 

Thou  shalt  wed  her  to-night — 
She  is  the  fairest  maiden, 

And  you  the  bravest  knight. '? 

At  the  altar  of  the  Virgin 

Their  nuptial  troth  they  plight — 

Oh,  blessed  is  the  union 

Where  hands  and  hearts  unite. 


Charles  Graham  Halpine.  223 


And  all  who  thronged  the  chapel 
This  benediction  gave — 

"Love  to  the  fairest  lady, 
And  honor  to  the  brave!" 


NINTH  ODE  OF  HORACE,  THIRD  BOOK. 

FREELY   TRANSLATED    BY    CHARLES   BROADBENT.  . 

A  DUET  BETWEEN  HOKACE  AND  LYDIA. 

HORACE. 
Whilst  thou  wert  mine,  and  round  your  bosom  tender 

No  youth  more  loved  his  happy  arms  might  fold, 
I  envied  not  the  Persian  monarch's  splendor, 
More  proud  of  thee  than  he  of  all  his  gold. 


Whilst  thou  with  warmer  fire  adored  no  other, 
Nor  Lydia  bowed  to  Chloe's  hated  name, 

I  envied  not  Rome's  Ilia,  our  great  mother, 
Proud  of  thy  love  as  she  of  her  son's  fame.* 


The  Cretan  Chloe  now  commands  my  duty, 
Skillful  in  song,  and  mistress,  of  the  lyre, 

For  whom,  if  Fate  but  spared  her  shining  beauty, 
I  would  not  dread  this  moment  to  expire. 


Calais,  of  Thurian  Orynthus  descended, 

Inflames  my  passion  with  love's  fiery  breath ; 

Were  his  life  spared  when  my  brief  days  were  ended, 
Twice,  and  that  gladly,  would  I  suffer  death. 

HORACE. 

What  if  our  love  returned,  and,  reunited, 
Our  spirits  beat  in  harmony  and  hope? 

If  Chloe  of  the  golden  locks  be  slighted, 
Would  Lydia's  arms  to  me,  repentant,  ope  ? 

LYDIA. 

Though  he  yon  star's  rich  lustre  is  excelling, 
You,  light  as  cork,  and  passionate  as  the  storm, 

With  you,  my  love,  should  be  my  happy  dwelling, 
And  in  your  grave  would  I  resign  my  form. 

*  Eomulus,  son  to  Ilia. 


224  The  Poetical  Works  of 


A  COLLEGE  SONG. 

Well,  the  world  goes  round  forever, 

Whether  we  are  sad  or  gay,  . 
Floats  the  cloud  and  rolls  the  river, 

Though  we  pine  our  lives  away ; 

Night  usurps  the  throne  of  day, 
And,  when  morning's  lances  quiver 

O'er  the  mountains,  flies  away, 
But  returns  at  sunset  ever — 

Earth  alternates  night  and  day, 
Grave  and  gay. 

If  the  world  so  little  care  us, 

Why  should  we  regard  the  world  ? 
Still  her  flowery  meadows  bear  us, 

And  the  star-tent  is  unfurled ; 

Even  the  stars  from  heaven  are  hurled ; 
And  the  grasp  of  death  will  tear  us 

From  the  tree  round  which  we  curled — 
From  the  tree  of  life  will  tear  us, 

Round  which  our  affections  curled — 
From  the  world. 

Comrades,  soon  the  world  will  leave  us 

Stranded  on  the  shores  of  time ; 
Years  of  all  our  joys  bereave  us, 

Age  is  like  the  serpent-slime, 

Staining  roses  in  their  prime ; 
Every  day  will  deeper  grieve  us, 

Every  parting  hour  will  chime 
A  knell  for  the  sweet  hopes  that  leave  us 

Buried  in  the  by-gone  time — 
Hear  it  chime. 

Comrades,  seize  the  passing  moment 

Lent  us  by  eternity ; 
Use  it  wisely,  for  'tis  so  lent, 

As  a  drop  from  out  the  sea, 

Rolling  backward  instantly ; 
Age  advances,  gray  and  low  bent 

As  the  waves  of  pleasure  flee ; 
Drives  us  to  our  latest  moment, 

To  the  dread  eternity — 

To  that  vast  and  trackless  sea, 
Over  which  the  clouds  are  low  bent, 

And  uncounted  shadows  flee. 


Charles  Graham  Hcilpine.  225 


FOUKTH  ODE,  FIRST  BOOK  OF  HORACE. 

Once  more,  thank  heaven,  the  western  breeze  is  sounding, 

And  Winter  yields  to  Spring's  delightful  sway ; 
The  skiffs,  long  moored  in  ice,  are  bounding  % 

O'er  the  bright  waters  of  the  rippling  bay ; 
The  flocks  we  stall-fed  seek  the  tender  clover, 

The  plowman  quits  his  fire  and  yokes  his  team, 
The  snowy  robes  that  lately  covered  over 

The  swelling  uplands  melt  into  the  stream. 

Now,  by  sweet  moonlight,  Venus  and  the  Graces 

O'er  the  green  sod  the  flying  dancers  urge ; 
The  Cyclops  toil  in  their  appointed  places, 

And  fiery  Vulcan  labors  at  his  forge ; 
Now  let  the  myrtle  wreath  be  placed  upon  us, 

And  all  the  flowers  that  earliest  brave  the  cold ; 
Now  let  us  offer  sacrifice  to  Faunus        t 

In  shady  groves,  the.  firstling  of  our  fold. 

Pale  Death,  with  equal  step,  is  seen  approaching 

The  peasant's  hut  and  palace-home  sublime, 
And  the  dark  flood  of  age  so  fast  encroaching, 

Forbids  us  fix  our  hope  on  distant  time ; 
Darkness  and  death,  oblivion  of  the  spirit, 

Soon  from  our  brow  shall  tear  the  shining  crown  ; 
The  grave  is  all  from  Nature  we  inherit, 

And  Pluto  there  in  silence  binds  us  down. 

In  that  cold  mansion,  farewell  the  dominion 

Of  jovial  cheer,  the  wine-cup,  and  the  song; 
Love  in  its  gloom  ne'er  bathes  his  rosy  pinion, 

Nor  grants  his  pleasures  to  the  ghostly  throng. 
Nothing  can  please  that  erstwhile  did  excite  you, 

Nor  from  your  face  remove  the  heavy  frown ; 
Not  even  can  Laura's  tender  glance  delight  you, 

She  now  the  toast  and  beauty  of  the  town. 


AN  EXILE'S  GRAVE. 

He  sleeps,  and  o'er  his  humble  grave 
No  gilded  trophy  meets  the  view, 
And  yet  the  man  beneath  was  true, 
Just,  resolute,  and  brave. 

15  K  2 


226  -The  Poetical  Works  of 


He  paid  his  folly's  farthest  debt — 
Inurn  it  with  his  mortal  part ! 
His  qualities  of  mind  and  heart 
Will  long  survive  him  yet. 

Oh,  friends,  it  is  a  bitter  thing 
To  die  alone  in  a  wide  land, 
Without  a  friend,  without  a  hand, 
Or  hope,  or  help  to  bring ; 

To  know  our  bones  may  never  rest 
In  the  green  valleys  of  our  youth — 
To  feel  that  many  a  foul  untruth 
Our  memory  may  molest. 

He  bared  against  a  vengeful  foe 
The  steel  to  freedom  consecrate, 
And  died,  the  victim  of  a  hate 

That  spares  nor  high  nor  low. 

For  there,  are  ways  of  killing  men 
Beside  the  sword,  the  axe,  the  rope — 
Great  hearts  will  break  when  lost  to  hope, 
And  yet  no  blood  be  seen. 

In  simplest  guise,  and  borne  by  some 
Who  knew  his  worth — hit  will  to  bless — 
He  presses,  as  our  noblest  press, 
The  couch  of  martyrdom. 

Peace  to  his  soul !     Let  him  who  ne'er 
Hath  felt  the  long-protracted  pains, 
The  life  in  death  of  prison-chains, 
Speak  lowly  and*  beware. 

Let  him  who  ne'er  was  gagged,  and  torn 
From  home  and  kindred  far  away — 
Who  hath  not  steeped  from  day  to  day 
His  bread  in  tears  of  scorn, 

Let  him  be  mute,  or  meekly  pray, 
Thus  kneeling  on  the  grassy  sod — 
"Thy  sore  temptations,  known  to  God, 
Have  washed  thy  sins  away." 


WE  MIGHT  HAVE  BEEN. 

There  is  a  whisper  ringing  clear 
In  every  sleepless  listener's  ear— 


Charles  Graham  Halpine.  227 


A  whisper  of  but  scanty  cheer, 
And  heard  more  clearly  year  by  year — 
"  You  might  have  been — you  might  have  been." 

Breathing  throughout  the  hush  of  night, 
It  shuns  companionship  and  light ; 
A  knell,  a  blessing,  and  a  blight, 
We  profit  if  we  hear  aright, 
"You  might  have  been — you  migh^  have  been." 

As  memory  bids  the  past  arise, 
The  soaring  hopes  that  swept  the  skies 
(Each  in  its  narrow  grave  now  lies), 
We  hear,  and  not  with  tearless  eyes,      "•«.- 
"You  might  have  been — you  might  have  been." 

We  might  have  played  a  nobler  game, 
Essayed  and  reached  a  worthier  aim, 
Had  less  of  grief  and  more  of  fame, 
Nor  heard,  as  from  a  tongue  of  flame, 
"You  might  have  been — you  might  have  been." 


FOURTH  BOOK  OF  HORACE,  THIRTEENTH  ODE. 

FEEBLY  TRANSLATED  BY  CHARLES  BBOADBENT. 

The  gods  have  heard  my  prayer,  girl, 

The  gods  have  heard  my  prayer ; 
For  thou  art  old,  yet  still  dost  wish 

To  be  reputed  fair. 
You  drink  the  rosy  wine,  girl, 

And  coo  like  any  dove, 
With  your  half-tipsy,  husky  voice, 

The  tender  hymn  of  love.  *• 

The  butterfly  of  love,  girl, 

Still  shuns  the  withered  tree ; 
His  home  is  in  the  summer  bower, 

And  such  is  not  for  thee. 
Your  foul  and  straggling  teeth,  girl, 

The  wrinkles  on  your  brow, 
The  elf-locks  of  your  whitening  hair 

Can  little  please  him  now. 

Nor  purple  robes  restore,  girl, 

Nor  gems  bring  back  the  age 
Which  winged  Time  in  passing  wrote 

On  History's  open  page. 


228  The  Poetical  Works  of 


Oh !  where  is  beauty  gone,  girl  ? 

The  grace  ?  the  bloom  ? — what'  part 
Hast  thou  of  her  remaining  now 

Who  once  o'erswayed  my  heart  ? 

Next  to  Cynara  wert  thou 

In  wit,  and  form,  and  face, 
But  the  gods  removed  Cynara 

Ere  time  destroyed  her  grace. 
But  the  gods  preserved  Vestina 

To  rival  the  raven's  years, 
And  that  glowing  youth  should  mock  the  torch 

Now  quenched  in  time  and  tears. 


WIDOWOLOGY  PHILOSOPHIZED. 


Oh !  none  of  your  boarding-school  misses, 

Your  sweet,  timid  creatures  for  me, 
Who  rave  about  Cupid  and  blisses, 

Yet  know  not  what  either  may  be. 
I  don't  feel  at  all  sentimental, 

Nor  care  I  for  Byron  a  rap — 
But  give  me  a  jolly  and  gentle 

Young  widow,  in  weeds  and  a  cap. 

II. 

To  her  I  would  offer  my  duty, 

For,  in  truth,  all  belief  it  exceeds — 
How  vastly  the  blossom  of  beauty 

Is  heightened  by  peeping  from  "weeds." 
She  is  armed  cap-a-pie  for  the  struggle, 

To  her  cap  I  a  captive  belong ;     . 
And  the  wink  of  her  magical  ogle 

Is  a  challenge  to  courtship  and  song. 

III. 

The  tremors  of  girlhood  are  over, 

Love's  blossom  has  ripened  to  fruit ; 
And  her  ' '  first  love"  asleep  under  clover, 

Is  the  soil  where  my  passion  takes  root. 
'Tis  pleasant  to  know  "the  departed 

Was  tenderly  cared  to  the  last," 
And  that  she  will  not  die  broken-hearted 

If  I  should  pop  off  just  as  fast. 


Charles  Graham  Halpine.  229 


IV. 

Her  temper  is  never  so  restive — 

Her  duty  she  knows — and  a  shape 
Is  never  so  sweetly  suggestive 

As  when  it  is  muffled  in  crape. 
The  maid  wears  one  ring  when  she  marries, 

In  proof  she  all  others  discards, 
While  the  widow-wife  wiselier  carries 

A  pair  of  these  marital  guards. 

V. 

So  none  of  your  boarding-school  misses, 

Your  sweet,  timid  creatures  for  me, 
Who  rave  about  Cupid  and  blisses, 

Yet  know  not  what  either  may  be. 
I  don't  feel  at  all  sentimental, 

Nor  care  I  for  Byron  a  rap — 
But  give  me  a  jolly  and  gentle 

Young  widow,  in  weeds  and  a  cap. 


UNCLE  THAD  STEVENS. 

Gnarled  and  tough  from  seventy  winters, 
A  gritty,  grisly,  bitter  "Had" — 

Though  our  Union  fall  to  splinters, 
Here's  to  Pennsylvania  Thad ! 

Brown  his  wig,  but  green  his  vigor, 

Angry  often,  never  sad — 
Full  of  wit  and  prone  to  rigor, 

Here's  to  Pennsylvania  Thad ! 

Though  lame  his  leg,  his  mind  is  rapid, 
And  all  the  House  is  hushed  and  glad 

When,  to  squelch  some  talker  vapid, 
Eises  Pennsylvania  Thad. 

He's  in  candor  a  believer ; 

All  may  know  the  thought  he  had ; 
For  no  mealy-mouthed  deceiver 

Is  our  wrinkled  Uncle  Thad. 

Into  epithets  he  rushes : 

All  are  "  traitors"  or  are  "  mad"— 
All  who  dare  to  cross  the  wishes 

Of  our  Pennsylvania  Thad. 


230  The  Poetical  Works  of 


Thad,  we  like  you  ;  you  are  able ; 

And  the  biggest  brick  that  we  have  had 
In  our  loud  congressional  Babel 

Is  our  Pennsylvania  Thad. 

Spite  of  age,  he  still  is  human, 
And  while  to  man  he  is  not  bad, 

Oh  dear !  a  good  man  to  a  woman — 
The  kindliest  man  is  Uncle  Thad. 

Naked  truth  for  him  hath  charms  ; 

And  for  the  negroes,  like  a  "  Rad," 
And  for  their  right  to  "be  in  arms," 

Nobly  fought  our  Uncle  Thad. 

Go  it,  my  old  shoulder-hitter ! 

For,  though  we  think  your  logic  bad, 
You're  just  as  brilliant  as  you're  bitter — 

Here's  to  Pennsylvania  Thad ! 


THE  HILL  OF  KILLENAEDEN. 

Though  time  effaces  memory, 

And  griefs  the  bosom  harden, 
I'll  ne'er  forget,  where'er  I  be, 

That  day  at  Killenarden ; 
For  there,  while  fancy  reveled  wide, 

The  summer's  day*  flew  o'er  me ; 
The  friends  I  loved  were  at  my  side, 

And  Irish  fields  before  me. 

The  road  was  steep ;  the  pelting  showers 

Had  cooled  the  sod  beneath  us  ; 
And  there  were  lots  of  mountain  flowers, 

A  garland  to  enwreath  us. 
Far,  far  below  the  landscape  shone 

With  wheat  and  new-mown  meadows, 
And  as  o'erhead  the  clouds  flew  on, 

Beneath  swept  on  their  shadows. 

Oh,  friends,  beyond  the  Atlantic's  foam 

There  may  be  nobler  mountains, 
And  in  our  new  far  Western  home 

Green  fields  and  brighter  fountains ; 
But  as  for  me,  let  time  destroy 

All  dreams,  but  this  one  pardon, 
And  barren  memory  long  enjoy 

That  day  on  Killenarden. 


Charles  Graham  Halpine.  231 


THE  LIFE  CHASE. 

They  started  when  the  morning  blushed 

Above  the  wave, 
Earth,  in  its  dewy  freshness,  hushed 

As  is  the  grave ; 
They  started  whence  a  torrent  rushed 

Down  from  the  hill, 
And  many  a  flower  their  footprints  crushed, 

On  hurrying  still. 

A  rosy  child — the  quarry — tripped 

Adown  the  vale ; 
Each  dew-drop  from  the  rose  he  sipped, 

And  lily  pale ; 
Oft  in  the  crystal  stream  he  dipped, 

Nor  thought  of  fear, 
But,  merry-eyed  and  cherry-lipped, 

Made  music  there. 

He  recked  not  that  he  was  pursued — 

So  youth  is  blind, 
But  mocked  the  dull  decrepitude 

That  lagged  behind ; 
He  sought  the  covert  of  a  wood, 

And  loudly  laughed, 
"  Old  huntsman  of  the  fearful  mood, 

I  scorn  thy  shaft." 

Nor  frowned  nor  smiled  the  huntsman  old, 

But  tottered  on ; 
His  eyes  were  keen,  his  hands  were  cold,. 

His  visage  wan ; 
A  drapery  of  darkness  rolled 

Around  his  form, 
And  still  he  chased  through  wood  and  wold, 

Through  shine  and  storm. 

When  evening  o'er  the  mountains  came, 

The  child  grew  weak ; 
Gone  the  rich  vigor  of  his  frame, 

And  pale  his  cheek ; 
But  the  huntsman's  eyes  are  still  aflame, 

And  deep  his  breath — 
Life  is  that  huntsman's  dying  game, 

That  huntsman,  Death. 


232  The  Poetical  Works  of 


THE  DIFFERENCE.33 

When  the  news  of  Jim  Lane's  suicide 
Was  bruited  through  the  city, 

Some  few — a  very  few  men  sighed 
"  Dear  me !  oh,  what  a  pity !" 

But  when  the  news  "  Lane  has  not  died' 

Fell  sadly  on  the  city, 
Then  all  the  town,  like  one  man,  cried 

"  Dear  Savior !  what  a  pity !" 


LECOMPTON'S  BLACK  BRIGADE.34 

A  SONG  OP  THE  CHARLESTON  CONVENTION. 

Single-handed,  and  surrounded  by  Lecompton's  black  brigade, 
With  the  treasury  of  a  nation  drained  to  pay  for  hireling  aid ; 
All  the  weapons  of  corruption — the  bribe,  the  threat,  the  lie — 
All  the  forces  of  his  rivals  leagued  to  make  this  one  man  die, 
Yet  smilingly  he  met  them,  his  heart  and  forehead  bare, 
And  they  quailed  beneath  the  lightnings  of  his  blue  eye's  sudden 

glare ; 

For  all  behind  him  thronging  the  mighty  people  came, 
With  looks  of  fiery  eagerness  and  words  of  leaping  flame — 
"A  DOUGLAS  and  a  DOUGLAS  !" 

Hark  to  the  people's  cry, 
Shaking  the  earth  beneath  their  feet, 
And  thundering  through  the  sky. 

Crooked  and  weak,  but  envious  as  the  witches  of  Macbeth, 
Came  old  and  gray  BUCHANAN  a-hungering  for  his  death ; 
And  full  of  mortal  strategy,  with  green  and  rheumy  eyes, 
JOHN  SLIDELL — he  of  Houmas — each  poisoned  arrow  tries. 
With  cold  and  stony  visage,  lo !  BRECKINRIDGE  is  there, 
While  old  JOE  LANE  keeps  flourishing  his  rusty  sword  in  air ; 
But  still  the  "  LITTLE  GIANT"  holds  unmoved  his  fearless  way, 
While  the  great  waves  of  the  people  behind  him  rock  and  sway — 
"A  DOUGLAS  and  a  DOUGLAS  ! 

No  hand  but  his  can  guide, 
In  such  a  strait,  our  ship  of  state 

Across  the  stormy  tide." 


Charles  Graham  Halpine.  233 


A  poisonous  reptile,  many-scaled  and  with  most  subtle  fang, 
Crawled  forward  CALEB  GUSHING,  while  behind  his  rattles  rang ; 
And,  mounted  on  a  charger  of  hot  and  glossy  black, 
The  Alabamian  YANCEY  dashes  in  with  fell  attack : 
Lo !  BAYARD  is  aroused,  and  quits  his  favorite  cards  and  dice, 
While  JEFF  DAVIS  plots  with  BIGLER  full  many  a  foul  device ; 
But,  smiling  still,  against  them  all  their  One  Foe  holds  his  own, 
While  louder  still  and  louder  the  cry  behind  has  grown — 
"A  DOUGLAS  and  a  DOUGLAS, 

Who  every  base  trick  spurns ; 
The  people's  will  is  sovereign  still, 

And  that  to  DOUGLAS  turns." 

Half  horse,  half  alligator,  here  from  Mississippi's  banks 

The  blatant  BARRY  caracols  and  spurs  along  the  ranks ; 

From  Arkansaw  comes  BURROWS,  with  his  "toothpick"  in  its  sheath, 

While  that  jaundiced  Georgian,  JACKSON,  shows  his  grim  and  ugly 

teeth ; 

And  BARKSDALE  barks  his  bitterest  bark,  and  curls  his  stunted  tail, 
And  snarls  like  forty  thousand  curs  beneath  a  storm  of  hail ; 
But  smiling  now — almost  a  laugh— the  DOUGLAS  marches  on, 
While  many  million  voices  rise  in  chorus  like  to  one — 
"A  DOUGLAS  and  a  DOUGLAS!" 

Louder  the  war-song  grows : 
"God  speed  the  man  who  fights  so  well 
Against  a  thousand  foes. " 

Long  and  fierce  was  the  encounter  beneath  the  burning  sky, 
Fierce  were  the  threatening  gestures — the  words  rang  shrill  and  high ; 
In  a  struggle  most  protracted,  after  seven  and  fifty  shocks, 
Like  those  old  gigantic  combats  in  which  Titans  fought  with  rocks 
(And  with  "rocks,"  but  of  a  different  kind,  no  doubt  BUCHANAN 

fought), 

This  first  pitched  battle  of  the  war  unto  its  end  was  brought ; 
And  smiling  still,  with  stainless  plume  and  eye  as  clear  as  day, 
The  "LITTLE  GIANT"  held  his  own  through  all  that  murderous  fray: 
"And  a  DOUGLAS  and  a  DOUGLAS  !" 

Still  louder  grows  the  roar 
Which  swells  and  floats  from  myriad  throats 
Like  waves  on  some  wild  shore. 

Oh !  a  cheer  for  Colonel  FLOURNOY,  who  to  help  our  chief  did  press, 
May  memory  perish  if^his  name  we  cease  to  love  and  bless ! 
And  a  cheer  for  all  the  good  and  true  who  faced  the  music's  note, 
Who  seized  old  HYDRA*  in  his  den,  and  shook  him  by  the  throat. 

*  i.  e.,  The  too  domineering  spirit  of  the  Slave  Power,  which  expected  the 
Northern  delegations  to  accept  whatever  candidate  and  platform  the  South 
demanded. 


234  The  Poetical  Works  of 


Though  our  country  stand  forever,  from  her  record  ne'er  will  fade 
The  glory  of  that  combat  with  Lecompton's  black  brigade ; 
And  when  June  comes  with  her  roses,  at  Baltimore  we'll  crown 
The  "  LITTLE  GIANT,"  who  has  met  and  struck  corruption  down. 
So  a  DOUGLAS  and  a  DOUGLAS  ! 

While  hearts  have  smiles  and  tears, 
Your  name  will  glow,  your  praise  shall  flow, 
Through  all  the  coming  years. 


THE  LYEIC  OF  TWEDDLE  HALL.35 

RESPECTFULLY  INSCRIBED  TO  THE  CENTRAL  RAILROAD  AND  THE   STATE 
CENTRAL  COMMITTEE. 

Who  killed  the  Democracy? 

"It  was  I,"  said  Pete  Cagger, 

"  With  my  poisonous  dagger — 
It  was  I  killed  Democracy. " 

And  who  helped  him  to  do  it  ? 

"  It  was  I,"  said  D'ri.  Ogden, 

"  'Twas  an  act  by  a  hog  done, 
And  I  helped  him  to  do  it." 

And  who  held  the  blood-basin  ? 

" It  was  I,"  said  Sam  Tilden ; 

"  When  the  red  blood  was  spilled  in, 
It  was  I  held  the  basin."  » 

And  who'll  have  to  pay  for  it  ? 

'  *  Alas ! "  cried  the  ' '  Central, " 

"  I  feel  in  my  ventral 
And  heart  that  I'll  pay  for  it." 

And  who'll  keep  the  soul  quieted  ? 
"  I'll  gladly,"  sighed  Cassidy, 
' '  Pay  the  priest  for  a  mass  a  day 

To  keep  its  soul  quieted. " 

And  who'll  have  revenge  for  it? 

"  We,  we,"  yelled  the  young  men — 

"  Bold,  honest,  and  strong  men, 
We'll  have  deep  revenge  for  it§" 

And  who'll  write  its  epitaph  ? 

"Woe's  me,"  sang  O'Reilly, 

"It  was  butchered  most  vilely, 
But  111  write  its  epitaph." 


Charles  Graham  Hal/pine.  235 


When  and  where  shall  we  bury  it  ? 
"  We'll  do  that  next  November, 
With  our  watchword  '  Remember !' — 

Oh,  most  nobly  we'll  bury  it." 

What  may  mean. this  " Remember?" 
"  Cagger's  yoke  to  shake  off,  man, 
As  we  should  have  done  Hoffman 

When  he  ran  last  November." 

Can't  the  thing  be  "  made  nice,"  boys  ? 

"  No ;  we'll  fight  as  we've  chosen 

Till  a  hot  place  is  frozen- 
Then  we'll  fight  on  the  ice,  boys." 

Dare  you  beat  the  state  ticket  ? 
"  To  disgrace  we're  not  wedded, 
And  we'll  go  *  double-headed,' 

Just  to  beat  that  state  ticket." 

What !  let  Radicals  win,  boys  ? 
"Ay,  we'll  vote  for  the  devil 
Till  we  get  this  thing  level — 

We'd  let  Beelzebub  win,  boys." 

Are  you  all  of  this  thinking  ? 
"All !  all !"  cried  the  masses : 
"  Too  long  we've  been  asses, 

But  we  now  do  tall  thinking." 

Will  you  hold  to  this  pledge,  boys  ? 

"Ay,  so  help  us  our  Savior! 

All  our  future  behavior 
Shall  be  true  to  this  pledge,  boys." 

What !  no  bargain  or  compromise  ? 

"Everlastingly  damn  any 

Man  who,  with  Tammany, 
Talks  of  a  compromise. " 

Then  you  hoist  the  black  banner  ? 

"Ay,  it's  war  to  the  knife — 

It  is  now  life  for  life, 
And  we  hoist  the  black  banner." 

Against  odds  you'll  be  fighting  ? 

"  'Gainst  *  the  deck  and  the  devil,' 

Till  we  get  this  thing  level, 
We'll  do  nothing  but  fighting." 


236  The  Poetical  Works  of 


Don't  you  fear  old  Pete  Cagger  ? 
"Pooh !  the  red-faced,  wee  fellow, 
With  his  wig  of  bright  yellow — 

We'll  just  p-p-p-p-puff  at  Pete  Cagger." 


"GIVE  ME  GUANO  OR  GIVE  ME  DEATH!"36 

Jerry  Black  to  Johnson. 

Alack !  alack !  poor  Jerry  Black, 

Do  you  call  yourself  a  man,  oh, 
Yet  on  the  President  go  back 

For  a  dunghill  of  guano  ? 
Your  bust  let  Cloacina  hold, 

While  Clio  will  record  your 
Foul  name,  as  one  who  Freedom  sold 

For  so  much  penguin's  ordure. 


TO  UNCLE  SAM.37 

A  ORY   FROM   THE  AMERICAN  SOLDIERS  IN  MOUNTJOY  PRISON,  NEAR   DUBLIN. 

Air :  "  The  Wearing  of  the  Green." 

Oh,  Uncle  Sam,  and  did  you  hear 

The  news  that's  going  round? 
Protection  in  your  starry  flag 

No  longer  can  be  found ; 
For  Seward  he  is  England's  tool, 

A  truckler  cold  and  mean, 
And  he  outlaws  every  citizen 

Whoever  wore  the  green. 

Oh,  as  citizens — Americans — 

We  gloried  in  the  name, 
And  on  many  a  field  our  blood  we  shed 

To  guard  your  flag  of  fame ; 
But  to-day  we  lie  in  bonds,  as  if 

Mere  felons  we  had  been : 
The  only  charge  that  England  brings, 

"  These  boys  were  for  the  green." 

We  are  citizens  twice  over, 

By  the  law  and  by  the  sword, 
By  adoption  and  by  service — 

But  our  claims  are  now  ignored. 


Charles  Graham  Halpine.  237 


Say,  Uncle  Sam,  is  this  your  wish, 

And  do  you  really  mean 
That  you've  outlawed  all  your  faithful  sons 

Whose  birth  was  of  the  green  ? 

We  have  had  no  trial — every  prayer 

For  justice  is  refused  ; 
Never  heard  of  our  accusers, 

Nor  of  what  we  are  accused. 
But  England,  grinning,  holds  us  here 

In  bondage  close  and  keen, 
While  Seward  smiles,  and  says  no  word 

To  save  the  boys  in  green. 

Say,  Uncle  Sam,  did  England  earn 

Our  Seward's  wish  to  please, 
When  her  pirates  drove  your  peaceful  flag 

Of  commerce  from  the  seas  ? 
And  it  was  from  her  great  arsenals 

The  South  was  armed,  I  ween, 
While  we  were  fighting  on  your  side — 

We  boys  who  wear  the  green. 

Oh,  if  we  are  not  citizens, 

Then — for  your  own  fair  fame — 
Disclaim  us  quickly,  openly, 

And  save  your  flag  from  shame. 
But  if  citizens  you  think  us  yet 

(And  made  so  twice  we've  been), 
Bid  Seward  write  :  "  Eelease  at  once 

Our  boys  who  wear  the  green." 


THE  PRESIDENT  TO  CONGRESS.38 

Air:  "  Yankee  Doodle  Dandy." 

General  Orders,  No.  1. 
Headquarters  in  the  White  House,  January  31, 1867. 

I. 
Andy  Johnson  is  my  name, 

Tennessee  my  nation, 
"  Swinging  round"  it  is  my  game, 

And  President  my  station. 
Yankee  Doo  may  squirm  and  screech, 

Yankee  Doodle  Dandy, 
But  Yankee  Doodle  won't  impeach 
His  "  great  plebeian,"  Andy. 


238  The  Poetical  Works  of 


ii. 

Uncle  Thad  is  drunk  or  mad 

When  he  the  scheme  proposes, 
For  heaven's  own  plan  made  me  the  man 

To  be  your  "  second  Moses !" 
Let  Ashley  rave  and  Phillips  preach, 

Yankee  Doodle  Dandy, 
But  Wall  Street  can  not  yet  impeach 

The  "  second  Moses,"  Andy! 

III. 
It  seems  that  I'm  the  ' '  anvil"  now, 

And  Congress  is  "  the  hammer ;" 
The  sparks  of  fight  fly  far  and  bright, 

And  deafening  is  the  clamor ; 
But  no  "  dead  duck"  by  hunter  struck. 

Yankee  Doodle  Dandy, 
So  far  can  reach  as  to  impeach 

The  "circle-swinging"  Andy." 

IV. 

I  had  better,  p'r'aps,  have  shut  my  mouth 

Than  Congress  so  have  pelted ; 
Perhaps  too  quickly  for  the  South 

My  bowels  may  have  melted ; 
But  'twas  a  generous  fault,  you'll  own, 

Yankee  Doodle  Dandy, 
And  not  enough  to  cost  his  throne 

To  your  repentant  Andy. 

V. 

You've  stripped  me  of  my  dearest  power — 

To  use  it  none  were  braver ; 
Even  Mrs.  Cobb  can't  get  a  job 

Of  pardoning  now  to  save  her ; 
I'm  only  President  in  name, 

Yankee  Doodle  Dandy, 
Then  why  impeach,  and  blast  the  fame 

Of  the  once  "  most  pop'lar"  Andy  ? 

VI. 
I  can't  appoint  the  man  I  want 

To  aid  my  re-election  ; 
My  spoils  are  lost,  and,  tempest-tossed, 

My  friends  are  in  dejection. 
I  nominated  men  of  fame, 

Yankee  Doodle  Dandy, 
But  the  Senate  won't  confirm  a  name 

That  so  much  as  smells  of  Andy. 


Charles  Graham  Halpine.  239 


vn. 

And  once — 'twas  in  the  Cleveland  scrape, 

When  the  boys  required  a  preacher — 
My  private  Miles,  wid  his  "  winnin'  smiles," 

Seduced  even  Father  Beecher ! 
But  worse  to  keep  than  to  seduce, 

Yankee  Doodle  Dandy, 
For  Beech.,  as  never  did  my  "  goose," 

Took  wings  and  fled  from  Andy. 

VIII. 

Along  the  railroads,  near  and  far, 

With  patriot  resolution, 
I  left  "the  flag  with  eveiy  star," 

Likewise  "the  Constitution." 
I  did  the  level  best  I  could, 

Yankee  Doodle  Dandy, 
But  "  by  fantastics  misunderstood" 

Is  the  epitaph  of  Andy. 

IX. 

Impeach  me  if  you  think  'twill  pay — 

But  it  won't  pay,  I'll  be  bound,  sirs  ; 
For,  driving  things  this  reckless  way, 
You'll  drive  'em  in  the  ground,  sirs. 
The  people  may  have  thought  me  wrong, 

Yankee  Doodle  Dandy, 
But  a  punishment  too  long  and  strong 

Will  win  them  back  to  Andy. 
By  order  of  the  Commander-in-Chief, 

MILES  O'REILLY, 
Asst.  Adjt.  Gen.  and  Chief  of  Sinners. 
A  true  copy : 
WRIGHT  RIVES,  Colonel  and  A.  D.  C.,  U.  S.  A.  < 


ST.  TAMMANY'S  TERROR. 

Ah  !  I  sicken  contemplating 

Next  election  day — 
Sicken  with  a  sad  forewarning 
That,  when  comes'  that  fatal  morning, 
Fifty  thousand  freemen  waiting, 

All  will  block  my  way ; 
Yes,  my  heart  sinks  contemplating 
Next  election  day. 


24:0  The  Poetical  Works  of 


Ah !  my  heart  grows  full  of  terror — 

Terror  of  the  fray — 
And  my  mind  is  busy  shaping 
Some  small  loop-hole  for  escaping — 
'Scaping  from  the  fatal  error 
Of  provoking  such  a  day ; 
Yes,  my  blood  congeals  with  terror, 
Thinking  of  that  fray. 

Ah !  my  heart  is  sore  with  sighing 

"  Were  I  safe  away !" 
But  my  wish  must  fall  unheeded, 
Now  the  sacrifice  is  needed — 
I  must  do  my  public  dying 

On  election  day ; 
And  my  heart  is  full  of  sighing 
"  Were  I  safe  away !" 

Ah !  my  heart  is  pained  with  thinking- 
Thinking  of  lost  sway — 
Thinking  of  a  city  plundered, 
Party  bonds  and  friendship  sundered, 
All  the  honest  voters  shrinking 

From  my  side  away ; 
Yes,  my  heart  is  pained  with  thinking 
Of  next  election  dav. 


MANHOOD  AGAINST  THE  MACHINES."39 

Air:  "  The  Wearing  of  the  Green." 

Oh,  brothers  dear,  and  did  you  hear 

The  woful  news  to-day  ? 
The  "Lunch  Club"  of  the  City  Hall 

Aspire  to  boundless  sway. 
So  Connolly,  he  must  die  the  death, 

And  Hardy  not  be  seen, 
Nor  Walsh,  nor  any  other  boy 
That  ever  wore  the  green"; 

For  Sweeny  of  the  black  mustache, 

And  Hoffman  of  the  brown, 
And  Tweed  with  no  mustache  at  all, 
Now  claim  to  own  the  town. 

These  princes  of  Mustachiodom — 

Their  spirits  black  and  brown — 
Now  claim  that  they,  and  they  alone, 

Are  masters  of  the  town ; 


Charles  Graham  Halpine.  241 


So  Waterbury  he  must  fall 
Beneath  their  guillotine, 
In  favor  of  A.  Oakey  Hall, 
Who  cursed  the  Irish  green. 

And  the  children  of  the  Rhineland 

Were  cursed  by  him,  I  ween, 

But  now  we  all  must  vote  for'Hall, 

Both  German  boys  and  green. 

But  before  we  own  the  "Lunch  Club" 

Has  arrived  at  boundless  sway, 
We'll  have  a  rising  of  the  pikes 

On  next  election  day. 
Our  beltane  fires  we'll  kindle, 

As  in  Ireland  they  were  seen, 
When  Ireland's  sons,  in  'ninety-eight, 
Were  rising  for  the  green. 

And  the  heroes  of  the  black  mustache, 

The  no  mustache,  and  brown, 
Will  find,  before  the  fight  is  o'er, 
They  do  not  own  the  town. 

Oh,  against  the  grim  Excise  Law, 

And  to  crush  the  Tammany '"King," 
And  against  an  Albany  Police 
Our  flag  abroad  we'll  fling ; 
For  the  people's  rights  we  staud.arrayed — 

An  army  grand,  I  ween, 

As  Sarsfield  led  at  Fontenoy 

Beneath  the  Irish  green. 

And  we  mean  to  win  the  battle ; 

For  among  us  here  are  seen 
The  Germans  and  the  native-born, 
And  the  boys  who  wear  the  green. . 

We  have  chieftains  tried  and  gallant 

As  ever  faced  a  foe — 
The  "  Big  Judge"  and  the  "  Long  Judge" 

Arm-in-arm  we  see  them  go ; 
Smith  Ely,  too,  and  Billy  Walsh, 

Are  brigadiers,  I  ween, 
While  the  color-bearer  of  our  line 
Is  Miles,  who  wears  the  green. 

So  Sweeny,  Tweed,  and  Hoffman  now 

May  fairly  set  it  down, 
The  "Lunch  Club" reign  is  over, 
And  \ve  bovs  have  won  the  town. 

'16  L 


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SOON  WE'LL  HAVE  THE  UNION  BACK. 

CAMPAIGN  SONG:  M'CLELLAN  AGAINST  LINCOLN. 
Air :  "  The  Hunters  of  Kenttxky." 

Good  people  all,  both  great  and  small, 

I  sing  a  tale  of  pity, 
My  hand  I  fling  across  the  string, 

And  waken  up  the  ditty ; 
A  ruined  land  that  once  was  grand 

Is  not  a  joking  matter, 
Though  Abe,  we  know,  the  more  our  woe, 
The  more  his  jokes  he'll  chatter ; 
Oh,  M'Clellan, 

Georgie  B.  M'Clellan, 
Shall  we  have  the  Union  back  ? 
Tell  us  "Mac"— M'CleUan. 

All  evils  sure  we  could  endure, 

Thrice  all  the  ills  we  suffer, 
Could  we  but  glance  on  any  chance 

Our  Union  to  recover ; 
There  gleams  one  way  a  flash  of  day, 

But  one  bright  bow  of  promise — * 
Good  Lord,  alack !  just  give  us  "  Mac," 
An'  take  Abe  Lincoln  from  us ! 
Oh,  M'Clellan, 

Georgie  B.  M'Clellan, 
The  one  to  bring  the  Union  back 
Is  only  "Mac'— M'Clellan. 

Then  not  a  rag  of  our  old  flag 

Should  ever  part  asunder ; 
"  Fair  terms  of  peace  if  you  will  cease — 

If  not,  we'll  give  you  thunder !" 
A  million  swords  to  back  our  words 

Beneath  M'Clellan  gleaming, 
And  soon,  you  know,  Jeff  D.  and  Co., 
For  France  they  would  be  steaming. 
Oh,  M'Clellan, 

Georgie  B.  M'Clellan, 
Soon  we'll  have  our  prisoners  back 
Under  Mac— M'Clellan. 

The  people  all,  both  great  and  small, 

Except  the  sons  of  "  shoddy," 
Are  on  the  track  for  Little  Mac — 

They're  with  him  soul  and  body  ; 


Charles  Graham  Ilalpine.  243 


For  well  they  know  the  nation's  woe 

Can  never  be  abated,  • 
Till  in  command  of  all  the  land 
Our  chief  we  have  instated. 
.Oh,M'Clellan, 

Georgie  B.  M'Clellan, 
The  Union  will  come  leaping  back 
Under  Mac— M'Clellan. 


EPIGRAM  BY  THE  COLLECTOR. 

Around  my  neck  he  placed  his  wing, 
And  cooed  and  billed  as  doves  may  sing — 

This  treacherous  and  dull  bird ; 
While  yet  his  beak,  with  bloody  art, 
He  strove  to  fasten  in  my  heart — 

This  vulture — Judas  Hulburd. 


JOHN  MORRISSEY  MY  JO,  JOHN.40 

AN   EARNEST  CRY  AND   PBAYER  THAT   I1E  MAY  NOT  BE  COEECPTED  BY  HIS 
ASSOCIATIONS   IN   CONGEESS. 

John  Morrissey  my  jo,  John, 

When  first  I  kenned  ye  weel, 
Your  airms  were  like  twa  iron  flails, 

Your  hands  like  slugs  o'  steel ; 
But  now  ye've  gaithered  pelf,  John, 

An'  to  Congress  ye  maun  go, 
Where  they  fight  less  fairly  than  yourself, 

John  Morrissey  my  jo. 

John  Morrissey  my  jo,  John, 

Wi'  braid  and  monly  breast, 
Ye  hae  faced  fu'  mony  a  mon,  John, 

To  try  which  mon  was  best ; 
There  were  tough  knocks  fairly  dealt,  John, 

But  to  Congress  now  ye  go, 
Where  they  gouge  an'  strike  below  the  belt, 

John  Morrissey  my  jo. 

John  Morrissey  my  jo,  John, 

We  hae  played  an'  drank  thegither, 

An'  fu'  mony  a  "tiger"  fight,  John, 
We  hae  had  AVI'  ane  anither ; 


244  The  Poetical  Works  of 


Oh,  at  cheatin'  still  ye  mocked,  John, 

But  to  Congress  now  ye  go, 
Where  the  dice  are  cogged  and  the  cairds  are  stocked, 

John  Morrissey  my  jo. 

John  Morrissey  my  jo,  John, 

Wi'. grief  our  hearts  are  stirred, 
For  still  to  friend  an'  foe,  John, 

Your  bond  was  aye  your  word  ; 
But  I  fear  ye'll  learn  to  lie,  John, 

When  to  Congress  now  ye  go, 
For  twad  tak  a  saint  to  resist  the  taint, 

John  Morrissey  my  jo. 

John  Morrissey  my  jo,  John, 
'  On  your  good  pluck  ye  relied, 
An'  against  no  pitted  foe,  John, 

The  "  hocussing  game"  ye  tried ; 
But  ye'll  find  it  "  hocus"  all,  John, 

When  to  Congress  now  ye  go, 
An'  we  fear  frae  your  high  stand  ye'll  fall, 

John  Morrissey  my  jo. 

John  Morrissey  my  jo,  John, 

These  politicians  deal 
From  a  faro-box  false-bottomed 

Wi'  springs  o' patent  "steal." 
Will  your  scruples  never  melt,  John, 

When  to  Congress  now  ye  go  ? 
Can  ye  deal  the  same  square  game  ye  dealt, 

John  Morrissey  my  jo  ? 

John  Morrissey  my  jo,  John, 

It  ne'er  was  kenned  your  plan 
To  kick  a  fallen  -foe,  John, 

Or  spurn  a  helpless  man ; 
But  ye'll  find.a  different  rule,  John, 

When  to  Congress  now  ye  go, 
For  they  kick  the  South,  having  gagged  its  mouth, 

John  Morrissey  my  jo. 

John  Morrissey  my  jo,  John, 

My  heart  in  terror  beats, 
For  you've  got  into  unco'  company — 

A  gang  o'  patent  cheats. 
Ye  hae  fought  an'  gambled  fair,  John, 

But  to  Congress  now  ye  go, 
An'  I  fear  they  may  corrupt  you  there, 

John  Morrissey  my  jo. 


Charles  Graham  Halpine. 


FERNANDO'S  CARD.41 

TO  THE  VOTERS  OP  THE  NINTH  CONGRESSIONAL  DISTRICT. 
The  royal  prince  who  reigns  in  hell 

Has  been  maligned  in  various  matters, 
And  now  would  have  the  people  tell 

How  silly  they  regard  such  clatters. 
He  asks  your  votes ;  'tis  not  for  pelf, 

But  to  rebuke  all  saints  and  sages 
Who  say  the  archangels  and  himself 

Have  not  been  cronies  through  all  ages. 


FOURTH  CONGRESSIONAL  DISTRICT." 

Our  theatres  with  ' '  Box  and  Cox" 
Were  crammed  from  pit  to  rafter, 

But  now  the  farce  of  "Cox  and  Fox" 
Fills  the  whole  town  with  laughter. 


A  BUMPER  TO  GRANT. 

FIRST  GUN   OF  THE   LYBIOAL  CAMPAIGN. 

Air:  "Benny  Havens,  oh!" 
Come,  fill  your  glasses,  fellows, 

And  stand  up  in  a  row, 
On  a  presidential  drinking 
We  are  going  for  to  go ; 
Let  us  have  no  more  sobriety — 

At  least  no  more  to-night — 
While  for  President  Ulysses  Grant 
We  take  our  foremost  flight. 
Oh,  for  President  Ulysses 

Let  every  glass  be  bright — 
May  he  rule  the  country  he  has  saved, 
And  God  defend  the  right. 

His  hand  is  soft  to  meet  a  friend, 

And  mailed  to  meet  a  foe — 
He's  the  Mississippi  River  horse, 

Resistless  as  its  flow ; 
He's  the  conqueror  of  leaguered  towns, 

And  victor  in  the  field — 
No  foe  has  ever  grappled  Grant 

That  was  not  forced  to  vield. 


'246 


The  Poetical  Works  of 


So  to  President  Ulysses 
Brim  every  glass  to-night, 

May  he  rule  the  country  he  has  saved, 
And  God  defend  the  right. 

In  the  world  to-day  no  prouder  name 

Is  borne  on  any  breeze, 
And  with  Grant  to  steer  the  ship  of  state, 

Our  flag  shall  rule  the  seas ; 
No  "dominion"  shall  be  north  of  us, 

And  south  of  us  no  foe — 
Our  stars  and  stripes  in  the  Canadas, 
And  likewise  Mexico. 

For  with  President  Ulysses 

There'll  be  few  who  care  to  fight — 
May  he  rule  the  country  he  has  saved, 
And  God  defend  the  right. 

No  more  shall  Irish  officers 
In  English  dungeons  pine, 
No  more  shall  Seward's  endless  notes 

In  endless  terror  whine ; 
We'll  assert  our  place  of  nationhood, 

And  take  our  proper  rank, 
With  iron-clads  to  guard  our  shores, 
And  bullion  in  the  bank : 

All  this  when  Grant  is  President, 
To  whom  our  faith  we  plight — 
May  he  rule  the  country  he  has  saved, 
And  God  defend  the  right. 

Oh,  the  Queen  of  the  Antilles 

Must  be  wooed  and  must  be  won, 
With  her  groves  of  palm  and  orange 

Flashing  brightly  in  the  sun ; 
And  our  brethren  of  the  beaten  states, 

Who  suffer  wrong  to-day, 
Will  find  a  generous  hand  held  out 
When  Grant  has  come  to  sway ; 
For  generous  4s  Ulysses 

To  the  men  who  felt  his  might — 
May  he  rule  the  country  he  has  saved, 
And  God  defend  the  right. 

We  are  sick  of  old  Thad  Stevens, 

We  are  sick  of  Butler  too  ; 
Sick  of  Kelly,  Ashley,  Sumner, 

And  that  God-forsaken  crew. 


Charles  Graham  Halpine. 


Let  the  men  who  faced  the  music 

When  the  storm  ran  high  and  hard, 
All  join  to  make  Ulysses  Grant 
Our  captain  of  the  guard. 

For  with  candidate  Ulysses 
-We  can  make  the  bulliest  fight 
To  rule  the  country  he  has  saved, 
And  God  defend  the  right.  ' 

Then  old  John  Bull  at  Liverpool 

Will  some  day  wake  and  groan, 
Finding  Farragut  at  anchor 

And  his  ports  wide  open  thrown : 
"  Settle  up  your  Anglo-rebel  bills, 

And  quickly,  if  you  please, 
For  General  Grant  is  President, 
And  I  command  the  seas." 
To  this  we  pledge  Ulysses, 

And  to  him  we  drink  to-night — 
May  he  rule  the  country  he  has  saved,. 
And  God  defend  the  right. 

So,  boys,  a  final  bumper, 

While  we  all  in  chorus  chant — 
"For  next  President  we  nominate 

Our  own  Ulysses  Grant." 
And  if  asked  what  state  he  hails  from, 

This  our  sole  reply  shall  be, 
"  From  near  Appomattox  Court-house, 
With  its  famous  apple-tree." 

For  'twas  there,  to  our  Ulysses, 
That  Lee  gave  up  the  fight — 
Now,  boys,  "To  Grant  for  President, 
And  God  defend  the  right." 


A  STOftM  BREWING. 

"You  are  growing  masculine,  my  dear," 

Said  a  husband  to  his  wife ; 
"  You  are  disimproving  with  every  year 

Since  you  became  my  wife." 

"A  bitter  thing  of  yourself  you  have  said," 

Was  the  lady's  answer  true ; 
' '  For  an  angel  you  thought  me  when  I  was  wed- 

What  has  changed  me  to  be  a  shrew  ? 


248  The  Poetical  Works  of 


"And  if  I  have  now  a  harder  heart, 

Tis  in  order  my  griefs  to  bear ; 
For  when  husbands  forget  what  is  manhood's  part, 

Then  the  wives  for  themselves  must  care." 


A  PRESIDENTIAL  WARNING. 

Air:  "  OuU  Ireland,  you're  my  darling" 

Musha,  Andie  dear, 
I  mightily  fear 

That  your  chance  is  ashleep — can  you  wake  it  ? 
For  the  Faynian  vote 
Seward  gripped  by  the  throat, 
An'  clane  out  of  its  boots  did  shake  it. 
The  gallant  O'Nale 
He  did  impale 

The  wrong  side  of  the  Canada  bordhers  ; 
An'  the  Faynians  wor  shtopped, 
An'  their  rations  wor  lopped, 
Undher  Grant's  imperative  ordhers. 

Faixl  Seward  and  Shpeed — 
Who  detest  you  indeed — 
May  well  choke  with  malicious  kmghter ; 
For,  while  this  is  the  deed 
Of  Bill  Seward  an'  Shpeed, 
It  is  Johnson  the  Faynians  are  afther. 

Sind  Seward  away, 
Clane  across  the  say, 
To  them  English  he  loves  so  dearly ; 
An'  that  you  are  for  Pat — 
If  you'll  only  do  that — 
The  Faynians  will  recognize  clearly. 
But  in  case  you  don't, 
Or  you  can't  or  won't — 
Though  they  like  you,  an'  like  your  notions — 
The  Faynians,  I  fear, 
May  start  off  right  here, 
To  the  Radicals  payin'  devotions. 

An'  then  Seward  an'  Shpeed — 
Who  detest  you  indeed — 
May  well  choke  with  malicious  laughter ; 
For,  while  this  is  the  deed 
Of  Bill  Seward  an'  Shpeed, 
It  is  Andie  the  Faynians  are  afther. 


Charles  Graham  Halpine.  2'40 


I  am  for  you,  my  boy, 
My  jewel  an'  joy, 

Till  a  sartain  warm  raygion  is  frozen  ; 
And  if  my  friendship  firm 
Could  prolong  your  term, 

Faix !  the  chair  you  now  fill  you  might  doze  in  ; 
But  these  Faynians  grand 
Are  a  hot-headed  band, 
An'  they  think  they  wor  thrated  unfairly ; 
An'  if  somethin'  ain't  done 
To  cut  short  their  fun, 
Och,  their  votes  will  be  cast  mighty  quarely. 
An'  then  Seward  an'  Shpeed — 
Who  detest  you  indeed — 
Their  midriffs  may  shplit  wid  laughter  ; 
For,  while  this  is  the  deed 
Of  Bill  Seward  an'  Shpeed, 
It  is  Johnson  the  Faynians  are  afther. 


CHURCH,  C AGGER,  AND  PIPER.43 

Poor  dead  "  Regularity," 

Claiming  our  charity, 
Lies  in  a  plight  most  horrid — 

Mangled  all  sadly, 

Lifeless,  and  badly 
Gashed  in  the  breast  and  the  forehead. 

Who  used  the  dagger  ? 
With  insolent  swagger, 
"Twas  I, "says  PETE  CAGGER, 
Of  the  murder  a  bragger — 
' '  'Twas  I  used  the  dagger. " 

And  who'll  have  to  pay  for  it  ? 

Who'll  rue  the  day  for  it  ? 
Who'll  have  to  do  all  the  weeping  ? 

"  We,  we,"  said  the  REGENCY  ; 

' '  We  a  grim  legion  see 
On  to  avenge  her  sweeping." 

And  think  you  that  CAGGER, 

Who  now  has  the  swagger 
Of  a  bravo  who  slays  for  his  stipend, 

Will  still  be  a  bragger 

Of  using  the  dagger 
When  the  time  to  avenge  her  has  ripened  ? 

L  2 


260  The  Poetical  Works  of 


"  No,"  said  DEAN  of  the  Central, 

Slow  patting  his  ventral, 

As  if  in  each  entrail 
An  agony  rose  which  half  rent  it ; 

"He  who  killed  ' Regularity,' 

PETE  CAGGER  the  carroty, 

That  man  without  charity, 
You'll  find  him  the  first  to  repent  it. 

"  In  each  Presidential 

Convention,  essential 
We  found  the  strong  aid  she  supplied  us  ; 

Oh,  deed  of  dark  horror ! 

At  Charleston,  but  for  her 
The  South  would  our  seats  have  denied  us. 

"  It  was  CHURCH  held  the  basin, 

That  grim  anti-mason, 
He  caught  her,  and  gagged  her,  and  bound  her ; 

But  'twas  PETER  who  killed  her, 

'Twas  his  dagger  spilled  her 
Most  innocent  life-blood  around  her. 

"Assisted  by  PIPER, 

That  venomous  viper, 
In  secret  the  plan  was  agreed  on ; 

But  now  in  blank  terror 

They  see  their  mad  error, 
And  fear  is  the  food  they  must  feed  on." 

These  men  without  charity 

Killed  "  Regularity ;" 

Yonder  small  carroty 
Man  used  the  dagger : 

"  Down  with  Old  Tammany ! 

Butcher  her — damn  any 

Man  who  can't  sham  any 
Love  for  PETE  CAGGER." 

PETE  is  not  mendable — 
Salable,  vendible, 
Prone  to  assumption, 
Wanting  in  gumption, 
Playing  Old  Nick  with  the  Central ; 
CORNING  must  stop  him, 
RICHMOND  close  crop  him, 
Snub  and  subdue  him, 
Wholly  undo  him, 


Charles  Graham  Hal/pine.  251 


Or  TAMMANY  HALL  will  yet  give  to  the  Central 
A  punch  in  that  region  which  doctors  call  ventral — 
A  twinge  in  each  kidney,  and  membrane,  and  entrail — 

Just  to  make  it  remember 

That,  after  November, 

The  Avar-path  before  us, 

The  Wigwam's  flag  o'er  us, 

Knives  and  tomahawks  ready, 

Our  warriors  all  steady, 

We  can  whip  such  Old  Fogydom  till  it  begs  charity, 
And  surrenders  each  wretch  who  assailed  "Regularity." 


LINES  TO  A  CONGRESSMAN.44 

Air:  "Jeannette  and  Jeannot." 

You  are  voting  the  wrong  way, 

Oh  my  Congressman  of  note ; 
You  spoke  against  it  t'other  day, 

But  now  it  has  your  vote.  ^ 

You're  on  this  and  t'other  tack, 

Alternating  like  my  rhymes, 
And  in  vain  we  try  your  course  to  track 

Through  the  columns  of  the  Times. 

When  you  wear  a  Johnson  coat, 

In  the  Philadelphia  style, 
Then  you're  sure  to  cast  a  Radical  vote, 

Howe'er  the  House  may  smile ; 
Let  whatever  happen  hap, 

Disregarding  all  advice, 
Oh,  you  turn  your  coat  and  turn  your  cap 

As  jugglers  change  their  dice. 

Now  if  I  were  in  your  seat, 

I  would  make  an  open  rule, 
One  day  with  the  Johnson  men  to  meet, 

And  the  next  with  the  Stevens  school ; 
Consistency  'twould  give, 

And  we  should  not  think  you  mad 
If  each  odd  day  "Conservative," 

Each  even  day  a  "  Rad." 

Take  an  almanac  for  guide, 

And  your  prospects  will  improve ; 

Heed  not  although  Le  Blonde  deride, 
And  the  House  with  laughter  move. 


252  The  Poetical  Works  of 


With  this  odd  and  even  rule 

We  may  guess  at  your  "  posish," 

While  now  you're  neither  hot  nor  cool, 
Neither  cabbage,  meat,  nor  fish. 


VOICE  OF  THE  ARMY. 

A  CAMPAIGN   SONG  FOE  M'OLELLAN  AGAINST  LINCOLN. 

Air:  "Scots  who,  hoe  icf  Wallace  bled." 

Comrades  of  the  tented  field, 
Who  the  flag  would  never  yield, 
Making  of  your  breasts  a  shield 

Where  the  pennon  flew— 
Men  who  have  with  steady  breath 
Rushed  on  lines  of  blazing  death, 
Thus  a  wounded  brother  saith — 

"  To  yourselves  be  true !  ' 

Faithful  to  the  nation's  chief, 
Work  he  bliss  or  work  he  grief, 
Till  the  hour  of  just  relief, 

When  our  votes  we  fling ; 
If  he  err,  not  ours  to  heed ; 
If  he  err,  'tis  ours  to  bleed — 
This  the  soldier's  simple  creed, 

And  to  this  we  cling. 

But,  at  length,  the  hour  is  here, 
When  with  soldier  conscience  clear, 
We  in  judgment  may  appear 

On  his  hateful  thrall ; 
Past  respect  for  his  high  place 
Bids  us  only  veil  the  face — 
Shrinking  back  from  the  disgrace, 

Sad  and  silent  all. 

Turn,  oh  comrades  of  the  tent — 
Of  the  flag  with  bullets  rent — 
Of  the  field  with  blood  besprent, 

Turn  to  brighter  skies. 
See,  with  soldier  brow  and  hand, 
Sympathizing,  calm,  and  grand, 
Chosen  chief  of  all  the  land, 

Our  own  M'Clellan  rise. 


Charles  Graham  Halpine.  253 


Let  no  ribald  king  or  clown 
Lie  away  our  chief's  renown — 
Strike  the  coward  scoffers  down ; 

Teach  them  what  they  are. 
Bats  and  owlets  dread  the  dawn, 
Cowards,  plunderers — all  the  spawn 
Far  from  our  dread  work  withdrawn — 

Strive  his  way  to  bar. 

Vain  their  efforts,  brother  tried — 

Sharer  of  our  woe  and  pride, 

"  Little  Mac,"  our  friend  and  guide, 

Our  watchword  and  our  star~ 
Hail  him,  drums,  with  glad  alarms — 
Hail  him  with  your  fiery  charms — 
All  the  din  of  battling  arms — 

Ye  his  music  are. 


SOLEMN  POLITICAL  DEATH-BED. 

LAST  WORDS   OF   FERNANDO   WOOD   TO   HIS   BROTUER  HEN  BY   WOOD,  OF   WOOD'S 
NEGKO   MINSTRELS. 

Bring  the  fiddle,  bones,  and  banjo — play  a  dirge,  my  brother  Hen, 
For  I  feel  that  I'm  a  goner,  down  among  the  deadest  men  ; 
In  the  Limbo,  drear  and  dismal,  where  lost  politicians  roast,. 
They  are  stoking  up  the  furnace  for  the  brownest  kind  of  toast  ; 

And  I  feel  it  in  my  bones,  Hen, 

And  hence  are  all  my  moans,  Hen, 

That  the  toasting-prongs  are  ready, 

And  the  white  heat  sure  and  steady, 

The  hungry  imps  all  grinning, 

And  .the  cooks  prepared  for  skinning, 
While  I  feel  myself  the  victim  doomed  to  feed  this  hungry  host. 

*Well,  I  played  my  last  card  boldly,  but  the  Wigwam  trumped  my 

trick, 

And  when  I  heard  the  ticket  named,  that  moment  I  grew  sick. 
On  that  instant  flashed  before  me  all  my  dark  and  hideous  past, 
And  I  heard  them  in  the  Limbo  cry,  "  We'll  get  our  own  at  last.'1 

You  may  think  it  was  some  "Birds,"  Hen, 

Who  chirped  those  fatal  words,  Hen, 

But  no ;  I  felt  them  wreathe  me 

From  the  deep,  fierce  pit  beneath  me, 

Like  serpents  coiled  and  hissing, 

Their  forked  fangs  never  missing, 
And  I  know  'twas  Limbo  shouted,  "  Oh,  we'll  get  our  own  at  last." 


254  The  Poetical  Works  of 


Since  the  game  at  length  is  over,  and  my  bully  hand  played  out, 
Of  the  past  and  its  achievements  I  begin  to  feel  a  doubt ; 
Perhaps  it  had  been  better  had  I  played  a  squarer  game — 
Been  less  false  and  heartless  to  my  friends,  less  selfish  in  my  aim  ; 

But  it's  now  too  late  to  think,  Hen, 

I  can  only  cower  and  shrink,  Hen, 

For  they're  piling  up  the  fagots, 

And  I  see  some  fiery  maggots 

Wriggling  upward  to  receive  me 

When  the  last  puffs,  panting,  leave  me — 
Through  all  my  limbs  political  I  feel  the  creeping  flame. 

No  use  to  sigh  or  struggle,  'twas  a  bold,  bad  game  I  played — 
No  private  ties,  no  public  ties  to  break  was  I  afraid ; 
Still  my  loaded  dice  threw  sixes,  and  my  dupes  paid  out  their  gold, 
And  my  coat-sleeve  had  an  open  mouth  the  ace  and  king  to  hold. 

Oh,  the  tricks  were  easy  won,  Hen, 

And  my  dupes  so  nicely  done,  Hen, 

That  I  stood  knee-deep  in  clover, 

While  long  years  and  years  rolled  over, 

Cheating  all  the  fools  around  me, 

Breaking  all  the  bonds  that  bound  me, 
Impassive  as  a  granite  rock — as  bloodless  and  as  cold. 

But  after  all,  perhaps  there  are  some  surer  cards  to  play ; 
It  is  not  wise  all  friends  we  have  to  use  and  fling  away  ; 
There  may  be  policy  in  faith  and  folly  in  deceit — 
I  think,  had  I  a  partner  now,  I'd  try  hard  not  to  cheat. 

But  the  knowledge  comes  too  late,  Hen, 

Comes  while  the  yawning  gate,  Hen, 

Revolves  on  fiery  hinges, 

And  the  red  heat  redly  tinges 

The  fiery  hands  extended 

To  tell  me  life  is  ended — 

They  have  found  an  "altered  invoice,"  which  they  tangle  round  my 
feet.  | 

Well,  I  had  some  friends  at  one  time — the  Irish,  warm  and  true, 
And  the  Germans,  who,  for  many  a  year,  my  standard  would  pursue ; 
Lord !  in  our  secret  lodges,  our  encampments,  and  grim  schools, 
How  we  of  the  Know-Nothings  used  to  mock  these  generous  fools ! 

'Twas  a  desperate  game  to  play,  Hen, 

But  it  won  for  many  a  day,  Hen ; 

Too  monstrous  for  believing, 

'Twas  the  easiest  thing  deceiving ; 

Secret  oaths  in  secret  muttered, 

False  professions  loudly  uttered — 
These  were  the  stock  in  trade  with  which  I  duped  the  generous  fools. 


Charles  Graham  Halpine.  255 


No  matter.     Let  your  tears,  Hen,  for  other  griefs  be  kept ; 
At  Lorenzo  Shepard's  funeral  a  thousand  good  men  wept ; 
Against  my  schemes  of  rapine  he  taxed  his  glorious  mind, 
Till  his  great  soul  shattered  the  weak  case  in  which  it  moved  en 
shrined  ; 

But  not  a  tear  for  me,  Hen, 

This  weakness  must  not  be,  Hen ; 

If  I  lived  for  self,  and  perish 

With  none  my  name  to  cherish — 

False,  hating  men  and  hated, 

To  long  oblivion  fated — 
The  King  of  Terrors  nears  me,  and  to  death  I  stand  resigned. 

When  I'm  dead  and  in  my  coffin,  under  fifty  thousand  nails — 
When  the  News,  released  from  mortgage,  my  cruel  yoke  assails — 
When  even  Plumb  and  Brisley,  Tom  Hen  Ferris  and  Ben  Ray, 
Regard  me  as  a  played-out  dog  who  has  no  future  day — 

Oh,  then  I  ask  of  you,  Hen, 

To  this  last  office  true,  Hen, 

With  Mer.  Brewer  to  deposit 

The  papers  in  that  closet ; 

Round  my  coffin-edge  and  borders 

Hang  my  full  Know  Nothing  orders — 
Cold  as  clay  must  be  the  nearest  I  can  come  to  Hemy  Clay. 

So  bring  the  bones  and  banjo — play  a  requiem,  Brother  Hen, 
For  I  feel  that  I'm  a  goner,  down  among  the  deadest  men  ; 
In  the  Limbo,  drear  and  dismal,  where  lost  politicians  roast, 
They  are  stoking  up  the  furnace  for  the  brownest  kind  of  toast ; 

And  I  feel  it  in  my  bones,  Hen, 

And  hence  come  all  my  moans,  Hen, 

That  the  toasting-prongs  are  ready, 

And  the  white  heat  sure  and  steady, 

The  hungry  imps  all  grinning, 

And  the  cooks  prepared  for  skinning, 
While  I  feel  myself  the  victim  doomed  to  feed  this  hungry  host. 


TWEEDLEDUM  AND  TWEEDLEDEE.45 

That  eternal  cocklorum  old  jamboree 
Betwixt  H.  Greeleygrum  and  T.  Weedledee 
Has  burst  out  again  worse  than  ever,  you  see, 
And  they're  deep  in  a  high  old  sparring  spree, 
And  cross-buttocking  other  to  such  a  degree 
That  it  forms  a  sight  for  all  Christians  to  see. 


256.  The  Poetical  Works  of 


But  th'e  public,  I  notice — that's  you  and  me — 
Have  to  bear  all  the  blows  of  the  sparring  spree 
Betwixt  H.  Greeleygrum  and  T.  Weedledee. 

T.  Weedledee  blows  on  a  mighty  horn, 

And  blows  with  a  vengeance,  as  sure  as  you're  born  ; 

And  crows  like  a  rooster  who  finds  in  the  morn 

vSix  new  pullet  wives  and  a  bushel  of  corn 

Lying  loose  near  his  dunghill ;  and  crows  to  warn 

All  the  rest  of  creation,  with  loftiest  scorn, 

That  they  neither  must  tread  on  his  pullets  or  corn. 

While  H.  Greeleygrum,  from  his  sanctum's  height, 

Puts  on  his  whole  armor  to  face  the  fight, 

And  cries  to  Sid.  Gay,  ' '  Where  my  coat  of  white 

Gleams  in  the  battle,  be  sure  all  your  might 

Js  directed  to  doing  some  grievous  despite 

To  that  elderly  rooster  who  still  will  write 

His  letters  and  paragraphs,  keen  and  bright, 

Against  me  and  mine,  and  against  truth  and  right, 

Above  the  initials,  so  hateful  to  me, 

Which  mark  out  the  old  man  known  as  T.  Weedledee.' 


THE  HEALTH  BILL.*6 

A  TALK  BETWEEN  TWO  BEPUBS  AT  ALBANY. 

"Shall  we  pass  this  great  bill  for  the  public  health ?" 

' '  Why,  that  is  no  longer  the  question  ; 

But  shall  endless  sources  of  power  and  wealth, 

And  unlimited  chances  of  public  stealth — 

On  the  cholera-plea  and  the  public  health — 

Be  secured  for  our  party's  digestion  ?" 

"And  if  to  our  party  this  power  is  to  glide, 

And  these  chances  of  wealth  be  won  for  us  ?" 
"  Why,  the  next  question,  then,  we  have  got  to  decide 
Is  this :  Shall  we  make  it  'an  equal  divide' 
Betwixt  the  Weed-Seward  and  the  Radical  side, 
Or  give  all  to  Lord  Thurlow  or  Horace?" 

•  •  The  Senate  think  Weed  should  be  given  the  whole, 

And  the  Board  of  Police  therefore  packed  on ; 
But  the  bully  Assembly's  as  black  as  a  coal, 
And  the  Radical  rascals  say  '  Thurlow's  control 
Is  already  too  great  for  the  good  of  his  soul, 

And  thevYe  down  like  Old  Scratch  on  Tom  Acton. " 


Charles  Graham  Halpine. 


257 


"  So  between  them  the  Health  Bill  is  dragged  either  way, 
And  all  kinds  of  fools'  errands  is  sent  on  ?" 

"Why.  yes  ;  but  you'll  find  they'll  agree  some  fine  day 

Not  to  lose  such  rich  chances  for  pickings  and  pay; 

And  the  Health  Bill — at  least  so  I  heard  Lyman  say — 
Will  be  given  to  Lord  Horace  through  Fenton." 


THE  TKIBUNE'S  PRESIDENTIAL  PHILOSOPHY. 

Soon  forget  the  bread  that's  eaten, 

And  let  policy  be  shown ; 
Don't  take  Seward,  or  we're  beaten — 

Take  some  ninny  quite  unknown. 
Take  some  fossilized  curmudgeon, 

One  with  no  obstreperous  brain's, 
And  we'll  hook  the  popular  gudgeon, 

Ay,  and  cook  it  for  our  pains. 

Let  us  get  our  Bates  all  ready, 

And  go  cruising  near  the  Banks ; 
Years  of  service,  stanch  and  steady, 

We'll  repay  with — many  thanks. 
Gratitude  with  us  is  gammon, 

But  we'll  win  the  spoils  we  wish, 
Chase-ing  that  Ohio  Salmon, 

Or  enjoying  New  York  Fish. 

Give  us  some  old  dancing  dervis. 

Just  a  puppet  for  our  wire ; 
Seward  has  done  too  much  service — 

Has  more  brfiins  than  we  desire. 
Give  us  some  old  dumb  curmudgeon, 

One  who  neither  writes  nor  prates,. 
And  we'll  hook  the  public  gudgeon, 

If  some  Weed  don't  snarl  our  Bates. 


"MR.  JOHNSON'S  POLICY  OF  RECONSTRUCTION." 

Greeley. 

SOME   COMMENT   FKOM   THE   BOYS   IN   BLUE. 

"  His  policy,"  do  you  say? 
By  heaven,  who  says  so  lies  in  his  throat ! 
'Twas  our  policy,  boys,  from  our  muster-day, 
Through  skirmish  and  bivouac,  march  and  fray — 

' '  His  policy, "  do  you  say  ? 

17 


258  The  Poetical  Works  of 


"  His  policy" — do  but  note ! 
'Tis  a  pitiful  falsehood  for  you  to  say. 
Did  he  bid  all  the  stars  in  our  banner  float  ? 
Was  it  he  shouted  Union  from  every  throat 

Through  the  long  war's  weary  day  ? 

"  His  policy" — how  does  it  hap  ? 
Has  the  old  word  "  Union"  no  meaning,  pray  ? 
What  meant  the  "  U.  S."  upon  every  cap — 
Upon  every  button,  belt,  and  strap  ? 
'Twas  our  policy  all  the  way. 

"  His  policy  ?"     That  may  do 
For  a  silly  and  empty  political  brag ; 
But  'twas  held  by  every  Boy  in  Blue 
When  he  lifted  his  right  hand,  stanch  and  true, 
And  swore  to  sustain  the  flag. 

We  are  with  him  none  the  less — 
He  works  for  the  same  great  end  we  sought ; 
We  feel  for  the  South  in  its  deep  distress, 
And  to  get  the  old  Union  restored  we  press — 

'Twas  for  this  we  enlisted  and  fought. 

Be  it  his  or  whose  it  may, 
'Tis  the  policy,  boys,  that  we  avow ; 
There  were  noble  hearts  in  the  ranks  of  gray, 
As  they  proved  on  many  a  bloody  day, 

And  we  would  not  oppress  them  now. 

"  Let  us  all  forgive  and  forget :" 
It  was  thus  Grant  spoke  to  General  Lee, 
When,  with  wounds  still  raw  and  bayonets  wet, 
The  chiefs  of  the  two  great  armies  met 
Beneath  the  old  apple-tree. 


RING  RHYMES.47 

Ho,  brothers !  drawn  from  many  lands, 

Who  drive  the  plane  or  swing  the  hammer — 
Beneath  whose  swift  and  knotted  hands 

Our  shops  and  ship-yards  clamor. 
Ho  !  all  who  live  by  thinking  brow, 

By  touch  of  art  or  strain  of  sinew — 
Rise,  brothers !  rise  and  swear  a  vow 
That  the  foul  Ring-rule,  rampant  now, 

No  longer  shall  in  power  continue. 


Charles  Graham  Halpine.  259 


Choked  sewers  of  filth  and  streets  of  mire — 

These  to  King  Pest  a  premium  proffer ; 
And  the  young,  and  the  old,  and  the  weak  expire, 

That  the  Ring  may  fill  its  coffer. 
And  who  are  these  men  who  can  thus  afford 

To  plunder  and  spurn  our  princely  village  ? 
See  this  beetle-browed,  skulking,  and  ruffian  horde, 
Who,  when  true  men  sprang  to  the  musket  and  sword, 

Remained  home  here  to  organize  pillage. 

They  have  seized  all  posts  of  power  and  pride, 

They  mock  as  vain  our  passionate  struggle,    • 
Conscious  how  well  is  fortified 

Their  rule  of  theft  and  juggle. 
They  think  us  weak,  for  they  know  how  long 

We  have  borne  their  sway  of  shame  and  plunder — 
Up,  brothers,  now  against  the  wrong ; 
Up,  in  one  effort  fierce  and  strong, 

And  rend  their  villainous  Ring  asunder. 

Up,  for  our  city's  tarnished  fame — 

Let  justice  urge  and  manhood  quicken  ; 
Up,  ere  we  grow  quite  dead  to  shame, 

With  moral  palsy  stricken ; 
Up,  and  hunt  down  this  brood  of  Theft, 

As  bloodhounds  bay  the  wolf's  hot  -haunches ; 
Up,  ere  of  all  we  prize  bereft ; 
Up,  and— if  nothing  else  be  left — 

Let's  swing  the  rogues  on  gallows-branches. 


"OUR  BIG  THING  ON  ICE." 
.   .     Air:  "  Tim  Donnelly,  the  Giant." 

Success  to  you,  big  Mike  Connolly, 

So  burly  an'  so  defiant, 
You're  twice  bigger  than  ould  Tim  Donnelly, 

That  was  our  great  "Irish  giant." 
Your  heart  is  big,  an'  your  brain  is  big — 

Out  o' jail  you're  our  "  biggest  big  thing," 
And  'tis  Big  Judge  Mike,  wid  his  big  sh'tick, 
That'll  break  the  Tammany  "  Ring." 

So  long  life  to  you,  Big  Mike  Connolly, 

So  jovial  an'  so  defiant, 
You're  twice  bigger  than  ould  Tim  Donnelly 
That  was  our  great  "Irish  giant," 


260  The  Poetical  Works  of 


It  was  our  Big  Mike,  wid  his  big  shtick, 

That  gave  the  "  Excise"  its  bolus, 
An'  he's  taught  Tom  Acton  many  a  trick 

In  spite  of  all  his  poliss. 
It's  him  that  shmites  for  the  poor  man's  rights, 

It's  to  him  that  wid  hope  they  cling, 
An'  it's  his  big  fist  into  smithers  will  twist 
The  "Lunch  Club"  an'  its  " ring." 

Och,  bully  for  you,  Judge  Connolly, 

So  plucky  an'  so  defiant, 
You're  twice  bigger  than  ould  Tim  Donnelly, 
That  was  our  great  "  Irish  giant." 

John  A.  Kennedy  calls  you  "blatherin'  Mike?" 

An'  the  Tammany  leaders  curse  you, 
But  the  more  at  you,  Mike,  such  haythins  sthrike, 

The  more  in  our  hearts  we'll  nurse  you. 
Och,  you'll  fill  the  place  wid  most  mortial  grace, 

An'  you'll  do  the  hangin'  highly ; 
But  I  want  you  to  shwear  (for  I'm  undher  a  scare) 
That  you'll  never  hang  Miles  O'Reilly. 

Now,  good  luck  to  you,  Big  Mike  Connolly, 

It's  well  you  may  be  defiant, 
For  you've  twice  the  shtuff  of  Tim  Donnelly, 
That  was  our  great  "Irish  giant." 

And  here's  a  glass  to  you,  Billy  Walsh, 

My  king  of  the  bould  Fourth  Warders ; 
It's  you  that  can  shtump,  an'  it's  you  that'll  jump 

Like  a  li'n  over  Tammany's  bordhers. 
You're  of  dacint  shtock — you  have  brains  an*  pluck — 

You  have  faith — you  have  youth  an'  honor — 
An'  I  wouldn't,  'tis  thrue,  whin  he  meets  wrd  you. 
For  a  five-dollar  bill  be  Bill  Connor. 

So  I  dhrink  to  you,  Billy,  in  good  poteen, 
My  king  of  the  bould  Fourth  Warders,- 
For  it's  you  that  can  shtump,  an'  it's  you  that'll  jump 
Like  a  li'n  over  Tammany's  bordhers. 


Come  round  me,  ma  bouchals,  come  all  of  you  near  me, 

For,  faix !  I'm  the  boy  that  can  faithfully  sing 
All  the  blessin's — stand  back  there,  and  let  the  boys  hear  me — 

All  the  blessin's  we  get  by  supportin'  the  "  Ring." 
Sure  we  see  our  "ring-masthers,"  wid  gorgeous  inspection. 

From  the  hoighths  of  gilt  coaches  our  labors  survey ; 
An'  we  get  a  month's  work — comin'  on  near  election — 

A-clanin'  the  sewers  for  two  dollars  a  day. 


Charles  Graham  Halpine. 


261 


Look  at  Brennan.     Time  was  he  was  ' '  Mat"  when  we  met  him, 

An'  so  civil  he  always  'ud  bow  whin  we'd  pass ; 
An',  och!  many's  the  good  game  o'  "muggins"  we  bet  him, 

Whin  he  sould  us  bad  rum  at  three  coppers  a  glass. 
But  since  by  our  votes  to  the  "  Ring"  he  was  lifted, 

On  the  Bloomin'dale  Road  he's  a  palace,  they  say ; 
And  the  flapjacks  he  ates  must  wid  goold-dust  be  sifted, 

An'  poor  divils  like  us  must  keep  out  of  his  way. 

An'  there's  Charley  Cornell — God  be  wid  the  time,  Charley, 

Whin  dressed  in  your  butcher-sleeves,  blood  to  the  edge*, 
Yourself  and  bould  Terry — now  Aldherman  Farley — 

Sat  down  wid  us  boys  to  a  game  of  " ould  sledge"." 
But  it's  now  you're  worth  millions — an'  how  did  you  get  it  ? 

Didn't  our  votes  first  give  you  a  sate  in  the  "  Ring?" 
But  we're  honest  and  poor — and  you  sthrive  to  forget  it, 

An'  the  door  in  our  faces,  if  callin',  you'd  fling. 

An'  there's  Pether  B.  Sh weeny — they  say  he  is  wiser, 

An'  cuter,  an'  darker  than  most  in  the  "  Ring ;" 
To  the  whole  of  them  chickens  he  plays  the  adviser, 

And  shows  how  to  cover  their  eggs  wid  their  wing. 
By  me  sowl,  little  Pether,  the  day  will  come  hoppin' 

That  for  all  your  "  ring  shwindles"  you'll  get  what's  your  due ; 
An'  aich  three  in  the  Park  will  be  gayly  out  croppin* 

Wid  a  rope  and  a  noose  for  such  spalpeens  as  you. 

Look  at  Tweed — holy  Father !  Bill  Tweedie — look  at  him ; 

Did  you  ever  see  feedin'  like  that  in  your  life  ? 
Like  a  Suffolkshire  pig  when  you  stuff  him  and  fat  him — 

An'  I  guess — like  the  pig — he's  just  fit  for  the  knife. 
Musha  Tweedie,  ahagur !  'tis  you  have  soft  weather, 

It  was  we-  tuned  your  pipes  and  we  taught  you  to  sing ; 
Do  you  mind  o'  the  time  we  wor  "  bunkers",  together, 

Before  you  grew  rich,  fat,  and  proud  in  the  "Ring?" 

An'  there's  Boole !     Oh,  be  jabers !  the  scoundhrelly  Blue-nose 

Has  brought  all  his  brothers  to  share  in  the  swag ; 
He  has  houses,  seven-thirties,  and  greenbacks,  and  few  knows 

The  size  of  the  ' '  stale"  he  has  tied  in  his  bag. 
"An' the  moment, "he  says,  "that  they  shtop  him  from  thievin', 

He'll  to  Canady  carry  his  bones  and  his  purse." 
May  the  divil  go  wid  him  our  counthry  when  leavin' — 

On  the  black  British  spy  be  the  Irishman's  curse. 

Och,  boys !  shall  the  rule  of  these  villains  continue — - 
Shall  we  still  be  the*slaves  o'  the  rogues  we  despise  ? 

These  trauneens  who  use  neither  brain-work  nor  sinew. 
And  forget  us  the  moment  we  help  them  to  rise  ? 


262  The  Poetical  Works  of 


By  the  Church  of  Ardagh  and  the  great  Cross  of  Cashel, 
To  the  dioul  both  themselves  and  their  tickets  we'll  fling , 

Let  us  thry  a  new  game — just  for  fun,  boys — and  smash  all 
The  schaimes,  an'  the  heads,  an'  machines  o'  the  ' '  Ring. " 


Air:  "  The  Shan  Van  VogJit" 

Och,  Fernandy  Wood,  the  bould, 

It  is  he  has  got  a  hould 
On  the  votes  an'  the  affections  of  the  Mozart  choir ; 

An'  they'll  sing,-  as  he  expects, 

All  the  chimes  that  he  directs, 
An'  they'll  only  call  their  sowls  their  own  at  his  desire. 

TSow  Fernandy  Wood,  he  made 
Wid  Cornell  an'  Tweed  a  thrade, 

Sellin'  out  his  Mozart  chickens,  feathers,  bones,  an'  hide, 
On  a  promise  that  they  should 
Make  himself,  Fernandy  Wood, 

Their  mayor  in  next  December,  let  whatever  else  betide. 

An'  for  this  Fernandy  shwore 

To  do  up  a  little  chore 
In  the  sindin'  of  Cornell  to  the  Sinate  o'  the  shtate, 

Where  Charley,  shpry  an'  firm, 

Might  extind  his  little  term, 
An'  fix  up  some  other  matthers  on  the  lobby-shlate. 

An'  for  this  bould  Charley  then 
Shwore  to  carry  "  Brother  Ben" 

To  the  Sinate  by  the  power  o'  cash  the  Wigwam  wields ; 
While  Weed  might  oust  Laimbeer, 
Placin'  Stewart  there  this  year, 

An'  put  Thomas  Murphy  snugly  in  the  place  o'  Tom  C.  Fields. 

An'  sure  Brennan  was  to  take, 

As  his  private  "  little  rake," 
The  Law  Department,  placin'  John  E.  Devlin  on  the  shelf; 

And  this — to  Weed's  abhorrence — 

He  might  give  to  A.  R.  Lawrence, 
As  the  nominee  of  George  Law  and  his  very  noble  self. 

'Twas  the  purtiest  little  plot 

Out  of — somewhere  that  is  hot — 
But  Fernandy,  as  he  oulder  grows,  is  proner  still  to  gabble ; 

An'  so  it  cum — by-an'-by — 

That  this  saycret  threaty  shly 
Was  developed  in  the  Herald  to  "the  outside  haythin  rabble." 


Charles  Graham  Halpine. 


263 


Whereupon  blue  murdher  rose 

'Twixt  Fernandy 's  friends  and  foes, 
An',  faix ;  Weed  was  in  a  corner,  an'  Cornell  was  much  the  same  ; 

For  the  Tribune  axed  the  blood 

Both  of  Weed  and  Benjie  Wood, 
An'  the  Herald  vowed  to  fight  to  death  agin  the  schaime. 

Upon  this  Fernandy  fine 

Sinds  for  Daniel  M.  O'Brine, 
To  whom  he  had  pledged  the  Mozarts  in  Cornell's  disthrick  ; 

An'  says  he,  "  My  bully  Dan, 

Such  an'  such  things  are  my  plan, 
So  in  favor  of  Cornell,  Dan,  you  must  back  out  quick;" 

"Divil  resayve  the  fut  I'll  back 

From  the  sinatorial  thrack," 
Shpakes  out  the  brave  O'Brien,  more  courageous  nor  a  brick  ; 

"  You  have  pledged  my  elevation 

By  the  Mozart  nomination, 
An'  'tis  I  will  be  next  senator  from  my  disthrick." 

Then  Fernandy,  mad  wid  rage, 

Findin'  flatthery  wouldn't  assuage, 
Shwore  a  pistil-ball  should  whistle  through  O'Brien  his  heart, 

If  to  tell  he  ever  dared 

The  bad  bargain  thus  declared, 
An'  by  which  Fernandy  hoped  again  as  mayor  to  shtart. 

"  Now,  by  this  an'  by  that,"  says  Dan, 

"You're  mistaken  in  your  man, 
If  you  hope  to  frighten  any  boy  who  is  called  O'Brien;" 

An'  wid  that  right  off  he  goes, 

Writes  an'  signs  a  full  expose, 
An'  wid  this  has  put  a  tombstone  on  Cornell's  design. 

So  Fernandy's  cake  is  dough, 

An'  the  bould  Bill  Tweed's  also, 
An'  the  ould  man's  busy  writin'  dodgin'  letthers  o'  denial ; 

An'  the  sea  for  Thomas  Murphy 

Now  looks  tempest-black  an'  surfy, 
An'  Stewart  in  his  cockle-boat  doesn't  dare  to  make  a  thrial. 

And  the  galliant  "Brother  Ben," 

Down  among  the  deadest  men, 
Is  decayin'  like  a  stale  jack-pike  the  honest  fish-wife  shpurns  ; 

While  o'er  him,  high  in  air, 

As  the  emblems  o'  despair, 
Gleam  the  banner  and  bright  sabre  of  the  brave  young  Col.  Burns. 


iV,  I  The  Poetical  Works  of 


\     to  Hreunan — t'aix,  'lis  he 

Is  the  co\\ed  cst  man  you'd  see, 
While  of  Lawrence  an'  his  ruined  ho|u-s  he  Mill  is  fiercely  stonnin' ; 

An'  lor  corporation  counsel. 

I'll  bet  tulips  agin  jj;rouiisel 
That  the  next  to  till  tin-  place  will  he  our  own  houkl  Dick  O'Connan. 

( Hi,  Ill-others     one  an'  all — 

Let  us  orpmi/e  this  tall, 
An' charge  agin  the  Kini:  ehiet's  in  resist  |rss  line  : 

An'  tor  leaders  let  us  take — 

lMucK\,  honest,  \\ide  awake — 
Just  such  candidates  lor  every  place  as  Daniel  M.  O'Brien. 


Air:  "  Tune,  the  old  coir  died  o/." 

Musha.  hoys,  did  ye/,  hear  the  news? 

Sure  Hen  Wood  is  tuk  had  \vid  "the  hlues." 

An'  Fernandy's  turned  nil  soorts  o'  hues 

That  a.  shkin  from  the  rainhow  could  horrow. 
J<iuce  he  hcerd  that  ihe  bargain  or  thrade 
\\'id  Cornell  an'thofckould  man"  he  made 
Has  jrono  up  in  a  hiir  balloon 
Twist  higher  nor  is  the  moon, 

An'  himself  an'  poor  Hen  must  sup  sorrow. 

For  T.iMi  sec<.  howsiiindever  he  turns, 

The  victhory  lanin'  to  Hums. 

\Vhile  all  kinds  o'  hard  kickin's  an'  shpnrns 

Are  Imped  on  Fei-nandy's  alliance: 
An'  Karl  SpracktMi^ie  r.rxant  O' Dutch 
I»n't  popilar — not  overinueh — 
An'  Mat   Hrennan's  attimpts  to  <-onthrol 
llo\\  the  people  shall  vote  at  the  poll 

Are  met  w  id  most  haynious  defiance. 

An' Cornell!      Sure  the  seoundhrel  O'Hrine 
lla<  jn-l  wheeled  all  the  bo\  s  into  line. 
Au'l-ad  hu^k  to  the  hope  or  the  siirn 

(  M' poor  Charley'^  eleeti«<n  this  minnit ; 
l-'or  the  Tribune's  had  somethin'  to  HQ 
In  pMtin'  Dane  out  o'  the  way  : 
An'  no  dodges  or  '•  Albany  thricks" 
That  the  "onld  man's"  so  famious  to  fix 

Can  now  sind  poor  Cornell  to  the  Sinate. 

As  10  Kiolds— well,  the  thinj:  was  too  plain 
That  il  lay  between  him  an"  M'Lane, 
An'  |Q  poor  Touuny  Murphy  in  \ain 


Spinds  the  proliis  ho  made  upon  shoddy; 
K.U-  ilu-  inns  :;o  M'  I.  .MHO     noiliiir  shorter  — 
N'e^leelin'  "the  Mioror  Mini  snorter," 
'I'.'in  Fields,  who,  in  somnolent  riot, 
So  ot'i  hroko  the  diirnilied  miiet 

(  >f  our  state  sinatorial  hotly. 

An'  to  me.  \\  ho  :im  loud  o'  the  >-  Kin.:;;." 
An'  to  Bronnan  ;ni'  Shwoeny,  who  eling, 
An'lielie\e  |>uhlie  theft  is  the  tiling 

That  our  hoys  should  admire  an'  rememhor  — 
Faix!    I'm  siek  ;it  the  heart  whin  I  look 
At  tho  figures  flint's  writ  in  tlu>  hook  ; 
l-'or  to  me  it  'ml  seem,  dnrlin's  de;ir. 
Tluit  the  "  l\in,i;-"  ehnnee  looks  inortinlly  queer, 

An'  will  die  the  lirst  \\eek  in  Peci-mlier. 

All',  hoys,  should  (hut  s:id  hour  :i|>|>ro:ieh, 
Tnek  me  dneintly  into  ;i  eo;irh, 
An'  siud  me,  without  reproneh. 

A\\:iy  lo  ihe  ,1,-irsi'ys  hi.lin'  ; 

Air  sind  nrenn.Mii.  .MI'I'  Shweeny,  tin'  Ilnidlc'v  along, 
An'  let  A.  O;ikey  Hull  swell  the  monrnin'  throng, 
l-'or  the  town  will  ho  then  fur  too  hot  :ind  lot)  stliron:-; 

IMH-  sneh  jorki>ys  n^  them  lo  nhide  in. 

A  ir  (with  a  recitative  chorus)  :  "  VuM  Ireland,  t/ot«V«  myjewtl,  wire." 
Oeli,  boys,  hurra!  now  eomes  the  d.iy 

The  '*  King's"  rank  rule  for  smitm': 
W«1i  mika  smithereens  o'  their  foul  u  innehines," 

An'  sind  their  schniiucs  n-kitin'  ; 
An'  tliiv^  shall  he  tho  song  for  me,   ' 

Corruption's  bulwark  stormin'  — 
'•  Hurra  !   hurra  !   we  win  the  day,  , 

Wid  lleeker  and  Kiehard  Q'Goimnti  ;" 
May  theOuld  Hoy  elin-  foyer  fhievin'  '*«  Ring," 

An'  the  |.hmdor  ye/,  jioekoted  handy  ; 
Hut  \o'\e  dhrained  lh«>  eii|i.  an'  the  -lime  is  :dl  up 

For   licit    e\erli-.|in'  >  jii.h'ineiit     |,\    default    allowm'  .John    I-'.. 


. 

and  hll  OOngAVnlal  partner  in  all  soorts  o'  villainies. 
thai  purk.M-  f.ired.  still'  dirkied  ould  rappaiee  an'  si-:«llvwng 


in 

Sure  av  eoor-e  I  mane  Feniandv. 
The  "l{iuK"..,.es  dOWH      wr'll  clear  the  town 

Of  all  the  brood  o'  P.rennaiis  ; 
An'.  fai\!   Charley  Cornell,  an'Tueed  as  well, 

Shall  llv  I.efore  our  pennons. 

'  M 


266  The  Poetical  Works  of 


Their  day  is  past,  an'  we'll  see  the  last 

O'  their  crew  to  Jarsey  swarmin', 
Afeard  to  be  caught,  an'  be  hung  as  they  ought, 

By  Hecker  an'  Richard  O'Gorman. 
"  God  grant  it  soon"  is  the  only  chune 

That  honest  men  can  be  singin', 
"That  from  every  three  in  the  Park  we  may  see 
Some  plundher-fed  '  Ring'-rogue  (an',  by  me  sowl !  whin  I  say 
thim  words,  Terry  Farley,  it  isn't  a  hundhred  miles  away 
from  your  mother's  son  that  my  mind's  eye  is  wandherin', 
an'  it's  thinkin'  I  am  what  a  purty  corpse  you'd  make) — 
Some  plundher-fed  villain  swingin'. " 

Ay,  an'  then  there's  Boole — that  Blue-nose  tool — 

An'  his  pack  o'  rapayshis  brothers, 
Who  have  gorged  their  fill  at  the  public  till 

Until  aich  o'  thim  nearly  smothers. 
Och,  we'll  sind  them  back  on  the  Canada  thrack, 

The  Faynians  behind  thim  swarmin' ; 
All  such  scamps  we'll  put  down,  an'  dhrive  out  o'  the  town, 

Undher  Hecker  an'  Richard  O'Gorman. 
Wirra,  boys !  it  will  be  a  nate  sight  to  see 

How  the  flight  o'  those  Booles  will  quicken 
Whin  behind  thim,  hot  sweep,  two  or  three  inches  deep, 

A  few  Faynians  their  bayonets  (an'  sure  the  world  knows 
there's  no  nater  nor  purtier  weapon  than  a  bagnet,  an'  it's 
only  a  pity  the  bright  point  of  it  should  ever  be  soiled  in  the 
corrupt  bodies  of  such  varmints) — 

A  few  Faynians  their  bayonets  are  stickin'. 

Then  rents  will  come  down,  an'  throughout  the  town 

There  will  be  a  proud  day  of  enjoyment ; 
For  wages  will  rise,  an'  the  loaf  grow  in  size, 

An'  no  lack  there  will  be  of  emplojonent. 
As  our  taxes  decrease,  all  the  blessin's  of  peace 

Our  hearts  an'  our  hopes  will  be  warmin' ; 
An'  we'll  have  a  good  time,  in  our  city  sublime, 

Undher  Hecker  an'  Richard  O'Gorman. 
"To  the  dioul  we  fling  all  the  rogues  of  the  .'Ring,'" 

Is  the  cry  both  of  palace  an'  shanty,' 
An'  next  month  we'll  inurn,  takin'  aich  in  his  turn, 

John  E.  Develin  (that  corporation  counsel  ours,  who  seems  to 
think  he  is  paid  for  no  other  living  thing  than  to  find  out 
how  we  can  be  ch'ayted  an'  plundhered,  an'  then  employ  his 
friend  Fields  to  do  the  job,  an'  divide  fair  wid  all  consarned 
afther  that) — 
John  E.  Develin  an'  Sheik  Fernandv. 


Charles  Graham  Halpine.  267 


GRAND  DEMOCRATIC  CHOWDER. 

In  our  city  aquarium's  shining  bound, 

Fish  of  all  species  enjoy  free  quarter, 
Poking  with  cold  snouts  round  and  round 

The  crystal  walls  of  their  limpid  fortress. 
Fish  with  the  biggest  eyes  are  here ; 

With  fins — the  pectoral,  anal,  dorsal ; 
Scales  that  like  proof  of  mail  appear, 

And  wide  mouths  gaping  for  every  morsel.    - 

Over  the  pebbles  and  shining  sand, 

Down  on  the  bottom  they  grope  and  wander ; 
Next  their  little  air-bladders  expand, 

And  up  they  shoot  as  of  sunlight  fonder. 
In  through  the  stems  of  the  cool  green  reeds, 

Under  the  lilies  and  pendent  mosses, 
Still  the  sub-aqueous  play  proceeds, 

While  porgies  and  pikes  have  their  joys  and  crosses. 

In  our  city  aquarium  all  the  choir 

Of  fish  have  particular  flies  to  follow  ; 
Hackles  and  cocktails  many  desire, 

While  palmers,  well  oiled,  nearly  all  will  swallow. 
Lady-bird  flies  are  a  tempting  bait ; 

With  duns,  blue,  or  brown,  your  sport  will  be  meager ; 
But  with  spinners  or  governors  all  are  elate, 

And  for  shiners — the  yellow,  you'll  find  them  eager. 

But  the  day  of  our  sport  was  a  cloudy  day, 

And  the  fly  we  used  of  a  new  description  ; 
Senator-fly  it  is  called,  they  say, 

And  its  use  shall  be  told  without  color  or  fiction. 
Never  had  anglers  such  royal  sport 

As  we  all  can  have  when  it  comes  in  season, 
For  the  fishes  their  destiny  seem  to  court, 

And  rise  at  this  fly  as  if  reft  of  reason. 


FOURTH  SENATORIAL.  DISTRICT. 

Dropping  a  senator-fly  called  Fourth, 
Tied  to  a  string,  just  above  the  surface, 

Lo !  from  the  east,  south,  west,  and  north, 
Numberless  fishes  rise  up,  all  nervous. 


268 


The  Poetical  Works  of 


Mather,  of  Albany,  first  is  found 

Poking  his  hungiy  nose  above  water ; 

He  carries  an  old  hotel-key  round, 
And  his  carpet  bag  shows  him  a  scaly  squatter. 

Jacob  L.  Smith,  like  a  pike,  we  see 

Feeding  all  round  on  emigrant  minnows ; 
William  M.  Tweed,  and  a  rockfish  he, 

Floats  on  his  supervisorial  sinews. 
Moneghan  Pete  works  his  gudgeon  fins. 

Watching  the  fly,  in  hopes  to  earn  it ; 
While  Alderman  Stephens  to  work  begins, 

Looking  the  stoutest  of  all  red  gurnet. 

Bob  Livingston  Linn  would  be  glad  to  Avin, 

And  swims  on  his  belly,  a  marshal  flounder ; 
Richard  T.  Compton,  we  count  him  in 

As  a  fine  iced  cod,  "many  years  a  rounder." 
Hughey  Boy  Smith  is  a  trout  of  mark, 

Prompt  to  assume  the  stage  of  action  ; 
While  Winne  Dick  is  a  lawyer  shark,. 

WTho  to  win  would  enlist  in  whatever  faction. 

Bold  Johnny  Shea  is  a  fine  fat  carp, 

Red  in  the  gills,  and  stout,  an'd  posted ; 
Kivlin  Tom  is  a  pickerel  sharp 

Who  will  one  day  or  other  get  hooked  and  roasted. 
John  Y.  Savage  is  long  and  grim, 

Best  of  sub-aqueous  swordfish  fighters — 
And  such  were  the  fish  who  appeared  to  swim 

'Neath  the  eye  and  the  fly  of  the  present  writer's. 

Round  and  round  in  a  whirl  they  go, 

Working  their  gills  in  a  fishy  smother, 
Making  their  glutinous  eyeballs  glow, 

And  biting  like  devils  at  each  and  other. 
Sides  are  peeled  and  the  flesh  is  bare, 

Fins  are  lopped  from  our  liquid  cattle ; 
Scales  and  skin  from  each  other  they  tear, 

And  rage  is  the  rule  of  the  fishy  battle. 


FIFTH  SENATORIAL  DISTRICT. 

Dropping  a  fly  of  another  kind — 
Senator  Fifth — above  the  water, 

Wagging  their  tails  and  going  it  blind, 
Infinite  victims  rise  up  for  slaughter. 


Charles  Graham  Ilalpine. 


269 


Smith  Ely  rises — a  senator  eel, 

Tough  as  his  leather  this  deep-sea  conger  ; 

And  Fields,  though  his  chance  has  improved  a  deal, 
We're  afraid  has  to  wait  a  little  longer. 

Chubb  Theodore  Tomlinson  don't  look  bad, 

And  with  sardine  sauce  might  be  made  taste  pleasant ; 
Sam  Webster  we  think  quite  a  promising  shad, 

But  shadowed  (though  under  the  gas)  at  present. 
Jim  Reilly  could  hardly  be  taxed  to  rise 

For  so  small  a  bait,  and  he  well  may  brag  it : 
But  Winthrop  Chanler,  if  only  wise, 

Can  hook  all  the  rest  with  a  Chanler's  maggot. 

Round  and  round  they  wriggle  and  dart, 

Bending  the  reeds  and  scattering  the  water, 
Spry  in  their  spines  and  terribly  smart, 

Every  one  eager  the  other  to  slaughter. 
With  mouths  wide  open  and  goggling  eyes, 

Fins  in  bedlamite  motion  working, 
All  for  the  Fifth  Senatorial  rise, 

While  their  tails  and  their  heads  have  a  crazy  jerking. 


SIXTH  SENATORIAL  DISTRICT. 

Soon  with  a  new  senatorial  fly 

Called  the  Sixth  on  our  line  suspended, 
With  much  "  speculation"  in  his  eye, 

A  sleek  mud-turtle  at  once  ascended ; 
Schell  by  name,  with  a  shell  on  his  back, 

Snapping — voracious  beyond  all  telling ; 
At  valuing  forts  or  flies  not  slack, 

But  afraid  of  snells  since  his  fatal  Snelling. 

Wheeler  John  like  a  weakfish  rose, 

Irresolute  whether  to  pass  or  besiege  it ; 
Dunham  J.  Grain  poked  a  tautog  nose, 

But  hadn't  the  spring  in  his  tail  to  reach  it. 
Philip  W.  Engs  made  a  bully  leap — 

A  sort  of  big  drum  not  easily  beaten  ; 
While  the  catfish  Baldwin,  though  lying  deep, . 

Has  a  faith  that  this  fly  will  by  him  be  eaten. 

John  T.  Hoffman,  whose  birth  we  ascribe 
To  the  big-headed  species  of  sculpin  finners, 

And  Livingston  Bob  of  the  Sheepshead  tribe — 
These  both  on  our  fly  hope  to  make  their  dinners. 


270  The  Poetical  Works  of 

So  round  and  round  in  an  endless  coil, 

Biting  and  fighting,  they  dart  and  splutter ; 

Their  chance  of  success  is  not  worth  the  toil, 

But  their  play  may  give  somebody  bread  and  butter. 


SEVENTH  SENATORIAL  DISTRICT. 

Last  of  our  flies  for  the  present  week, 

Seventh  Senatorial  we  now  exhibit — 
A  fly  which  all  Mackerells  eagerly  seek, 

While  the  squidfish  Connolly  jumps  to  crib  it. 
That  Dick  feels  sure  you  can  see  at  a  glance — 

He  dallies-  and  dandles,  appearing  listless  ; 
While  the  luminous  sunfish  Johnny  Vance 

Is  advancing  claims  which  appear  resistless. 

That  perch  of  a  Peck,  if  we  take  his  word, 

Guarantees  to  return  us  double  measure ; 
And  the  herring  P.  G.  Moloney  is  heard 

Proclaiming  the  fly  to  be  his  at  pleasure. 
The  mullet  M'Spedon  to  Avin  is  bound — 

A  fish  full  of  humor,  provoking  laughter ; 
While  the  tipsy-fish  Rutherford  squirms  around, 

But  a  cocktail  fly  is  the  one  he's  after. 

Like  a  jolly  fat  halibut,  Bartlett  Smith 

Plashes  around  with  uneasy  jerkings  ; 
Harry  Genet  shows  his  bottom  and  pith 

By  biting  the  tail  of  Hosea  Bream  Perkins. 
Noah  A.  Childs,  an  audacious  dace, 

Has  the  thick,  hard  scales  of  the  old-school  hunkers; 
And  Masterson  Pete,  in  his  fireman  face, 

Shows  a  clear  descent  from  the  line  of  bunkers. 

Round  and  round  in  a  whirl  they  go, 

Working  their  gills  in  a  fishy  smother, 
Making  their  glutinous  eyeballs  glow, 

And  biting  like  devils  .at  each  and  other. 
Sides  are  peeled  till  the  bones  lie  bare, 

Fins  are  lopped  from  our  liquid  cattle ; 
Scales  and  skin  from  each  other  they  tear, 

And  rage  is  the  rule  of  the  fishy  battle. 


ST.  TAMMANY  AND  THE  NABOBS. 

Oh,  there  was  a  delusion,  in  the  good  days  of  old, 
That  party  was  an  army  with  soldiers  enrolled ; 


Charles  Graham  Halpine.  271 

There  were  privates  with  muskets,  and  sergeants  on  pay, 
And  captings  with  epaulettes  both  gallant  and  gay, 

Singing  tooral-liooral,  etc. 

In  the  good  times  we  speak  of  promotion  was  won 
By  a  record  of  friendship  and  services  done ; 
Men  marched  in  the  ranks  ere  they  rode  in  the  van, 
And  the  purse  was  no  object — we  looked  at  the  man, 
Singing  tooral,  etc. 

Oh,  shoulder  to  shoulder  right  onward  we  press'd, 
All  passions  but  envy  had  room  in  each  breast ; 
Heart  beating  to  heart,  every  thought  seemed  to  blend, 
And  each  looked  to  the  banner  which  all  would,  defend, 
Singing  tooral,  etc. 

Yes,  triumph  and  sorrow,  joy,  anger,  and  pride, 
We  shared  with  the  brothers  who  marched  by  our  side ; 
When  the  bugle  was  heard,  every  soldier  took  arms, 
And  the  world  had  no  prize  to  give  treachery  charms, 
Singing  tooral,  etc. 

But  a  new  light  has  dawned  on  political  war, 
And  'tis  now  "Will  it  pay  ?"  ere  you  say  who  you're  for ; 
'Tis  no  longer  ' '  What,  he !  my  old  friend  wants  my  aid ; 
He  shall  have  it."    Ah  no ;  the  game's  otherwise  played, 
Singing  tooral,  etc. 

This  course  was  all  wrong,  as  some  big  nabobs  say, 
Who  have  kindly  agreed  o'er  our  lives  to  bear  sway ; 
The  man  counts  for  naught  till  we  see  how  he  stands 
In  the  matter  of  rent-roll,  stock-jobbing,  and  lands, 
Singing  tooral,  etc. 

These  nabobs  have  shirt-fronts  with  diamonds  a-gleam, 
And  their  Verzenay  bubbles,  an  amber-hued  stream ; 
Grand  junction,  commercial  politicians  they  are, 
And  in  ' '  selling  for  cash"  each  man  shines  like  a  star, 
Singing  tooral,  etc. 

They  sit  in  gay  rooms  under  glass  chandeliers, 
And  each  bulbous-nosed  squatter  at  Tammany  sneers ; 
Oh,  they  look  with  big  eyes  on  political  jobs, 
And  then  rattle  the  tin  in  their  corpulent  fobs, 

Singing  tooral,  etc. 

Big  chunks  of  a  golden  humanity  these, 
Fat  ingots  with  heads  swelled  as  big  as  a  cheese ; 
They  twiddle  their  thumbs  as  they  dream  of  their  checks, 
And  'tis  they  hold  the  people  ker-chuck  by  the  necks, 
Singing  tooral,  etc. 


272  The  Poetical  Works  of 


Greedy  handlers  of  bullion,  bold  signers  of  bills, 
Immense  in  the  matter  of  cleaning  out  tills  ; 
The  masses  are  asses — so  Nature  ordains, 
For  we  all  know  that  cash  is  the  measure  of  brains, 
Singing  tooral,  etc. 

The  only  grand  Icey  to  which  Fortune  accords 
The  power  of  revolving  in  popular  wards, 
Is  a  key  made  of  gold  by  some  nabob  applied, 
Which  will  give  access  free  to  the  jam-pots  inside, 
Singing  tooral,  etc. 

Oh,  no  more  we'll  look  down  to  the  leaders  of  wards, 
But  we'll  all  raise  our  eyes  to  these  "national" lords ; 
They  wear  leather  medals  to  which  we  bow  low, 
And  at  Charleston  they'll  make  a  splendiferous  show, 
Singing  tooral,  etc. 

No  man  in  this  city  could  righteously  dare 
Over  grandees  like  these  to  aspire  to  be  mayor ; 
So  they  sail  up  North  River  the  land  to  inspect, 
And  a  mayor  they'll  "import" — whom,  of  course,  we'll  elect, 
Singing  tooral,  etc. 

All  the  papers  will  spend  full  two  thirds  or  a  half 
Of  their  space  to  extol  this  auriferous  calf; 
Times,  Herald,  and  Tribune  will  bless  the  bright  day,. 
And  the  Leader  will  kneel,  singing  hal-le-lu-jay, 
And  tooral,  etc. 

So,  in  view  of  this  new  rule,  all  rising  young  men 
Who  have  done  party  service — don't  do  it  again  ; 
For,  until  things  are  changed,  this  no  longer  can  be 
To  party  promotion  the  ladder  and  key, 

Singing  tooral,  etc. 

But  change  a  bad  check  for  good  value,  and  run, 
Or  find  a  rich  wife  who  will  pay  for  your  fun ; 
Either  get  rich  or  seem  rich,  for  both  will  avail, 
And  you  may  join  the  nabobs — if  not  put  in  jail, 
Singing  tooral,  etc. 

So  down  with  all  weakness  of  friendly  regard ; 
To  cheat — for  the  first  time — we  know  may  be  hard ; 
But  whoever  to  cheat  perseveringly  tries, 
Oh,  he'll  find  cheating  come  just  as  easy  as  lies, 
Singing  tooral,  etc. 

So  hurra  for  the  nabobs,  and  long  may  they  reign  ; 
We  kiss  their  kind  whip,  and  we  cuddle  the  chain  ; 


CJiarles  Graham  Halpine.  273 

We'll  pull  down  the  Wigwam,  and  choke  the  big  spring. 
While  the  praise  of  "  commercial  transactions"  we  sing, 
Singing  tooral,  etc. 

But  perhaps,  ere  the  Wigwam  a  ruin  is  found, 
Ere  we  take  our  farewell  of  the  old  hunting  ground, 
Just  to  hear  the  last  echo  'twill  fling  from  its  roof, 
Of  this  rhymed  invocation  'tis  well  to  make  proof, 
Singing  tooral,  etc. 


THE  APOTHEOSIS  OF  JAY  COOKE. 

Hurra !  hurra !  I  "heard  them  say, 

Hurra  for  the  Cooke  who  is  christened  Jay — 

A  greater  old  joker  than  Rabelais. 
May  his  name,  be  great,  and  his  purse  expand, 
And  his  fame  and  his  shadow  fill  the  land ; 
For  'tis  he  has  proved,  in  a  manner  as  yet 

Defying  all  skill  but  his  alone, 
That  of  all  great  blessings,  a  national  debt 

Is  the  jolliest  blessing  that  ever  was  known. 

Our  Jay  like  a  jay-bird  well  may  crow, 

For  a  thousand  millions  of  dollars  or  so,. 

To  this  side  or  that,  like  a  ball,  he  can  throw ; 

And  it  is  by  the  skill  of  this  mighty  Cooke 

That  our  last  seven-thirties  all  "got  took;" 

And  of  all  the  nations  that  ever  were  known, 

The  richest  and  greatest  is  now  our  own  ; 

And  of  all  the  cooks  in  the  moneyed  line, 

"  Doing  things  up  brown"  with  a  crisp  that  is  fine, 

There  is  never  a  chef,  we  swear  by  the  book, 

That  can  equal  our  own  immortal  Cooke. 

His  discovery  acts  like  a  Brandreth's  pill 
For  the  cure  of  all  forms  of  national  ill ; 
And  the  louder  he  cries  as  we  nearer  sink 
To  the  verge  of  bankruptcy's  dreadful  brink — 
"  Oh,  go  it,  ye  cripples !  your  cares  forget ; 
Plunge  deeper  in  blessings — that  is,  in  debt ; 
To  pay  what  you  owe,  and  to  pay  as  you  go — 
These  are  old  fogy  notions  our  age  below ; 
But  believe  with  me,  and  never  forget, 
That  the  way  to  be  blessed  is  to  rush  into  debt. 
At  the  cautions  of  fogy  financiers  scoff, 
Never  bother  your  head  about  paying  it  off; 

18  M  2 


274  The  Poetical  Works  of 


But  keep  borrowing  still,  with  a  greedy  clutch, 
For  of  blessings  you  never  can  have  too  much  ; 
And  of  all  the  blessings  the  Avorld  knows  yet, 
The  greatest,  I  swear,  is  a  national  debt." 

Oh,  crown  him  with  greenbacks,  and  let  his  heir 

A  chaplet  of  ten-cent  currency  wear ; 

And  down  from  his  shoulders,  broad  and  tall, 

Let  a  mantle  of  bonds  (seven-thirties)  fall ; 

And  place  in  his  hands  a  baton,  rolled 

With  the  thinnest  film  or  foil  of  gold ; 

And — with  this  for  his  sceptre,  a  sorcerer's  rod — 

Let  his  feet  with  brazen  shoes  be  shod — 

Shoes  like  to  Mercury's,  wing  combined, 

To  show  the  flight  that  our  wealth  is  taking ; 
And  brazen,  to  typify  the  mind 

That  a  "blessing"  of  our  great  curse  is  making. 


NEW  YORK  IN  A  NUTSHELL. 

THE  NUT  CRACKED  AND  NUT-KITIOUSLY  DIGESTED. 

Ye  curious  Yankees,  who,  alas ! 

Desire  to  visit  Gotham, 
Attend  unto  the  dangers  as 

We  presently  shall  show  them ; 
And  ere  with  bodies  safe  and  sound 

You  launch  upon  the  Sound,  sirs, 
Get  up  upon  our  Pegasus, 

And  peg  with  us  around,  sirs. 

The  city  stands  upon  an  isle 

Or  sand-bank  called  Manhattan ; 
It  is  a  place  given  wholly  up 

To  brandy,  silk,  and  Satan. 
Its  people  love  the  broad  Broadway, 

The  "  narrow  path"  they  scoff  at ; 
Their  worship  now  is  the  cholera  ghoul, 

And  Schultz  is  their  chief  prophet. 

The  city's  statutes  are  as  dead 

As  statues  made  of  plaster ; 
Its  streets  are  blocked — hxAstor  Place 

Can  neither  horse  nor  ass  stir. 
In  Pearl  Street  there  are  pearl-ous  vaults, 

Down  which  we  turn  pearl-divers ; 
And  Bleecker  is  a  bleaker  street 

For  passengers  and  drivers. 


Charles  Graham  Halpine.  275 


In  Amity  no  friendship  is, 

In  Bond  Street  no  security, 
In  Grand  Street  nothing  great  or  grand, 

In  Water  Street  no  purity ; 
In  Broome  there's  not  a  broom  at  work, 

Dry  Dock  is  quite  a  puddle ; 
In  Carroll  Street  no  carol  sounds, 

And  Congress  is  a  muddle. 

The  street  called  Gay  is  very,  sad ; 

Both  Ann  and  Catharine  plague  you ; 
The  very  name  of  Hague  Street  gives 

A  Cockney  bard  the  h'-ague. 
In  Dey  Street  we  are  like  to  die, 

Gramercy  Place  is  pert,  sirs, 
And  Chestnut  Street  and  Cherry  make 

A  dessert  we  desert,  sirs. 

There's  Bayard  Street — but  not,  like  him, 

Sans  peur  et  sans  reproche,  sirs ; 
And  in  Attorney  Street  you  find 

A  tourney-coach  to  coach,  sirs. 
In  Rose  I  never  saw  a  rose 

Except  a  colored  woman, 
And  Clement  Street  and  Mersey  are 

Most  thoroughly  inhuman. 

In  Greene  Street  not  a  blade  of  grass, 

In  Fountain  not  a  pailful ; 
The  streets,  with  bales  and  boxes  piled, 

Become  each  day  more  baleful ; 
A  walk  through  Varick  Street  would  give 

A  varic-ose  complaint,  sirs, 
And  White  Street  is  as  black  a  place 

As  ever  mud  did  paint,  sirs. 

Our  streets  are  piled  with*  piles  of  brick, 

And  "  bricks"  go  staggering  by  them ; 
The  rotten  shingles  covering  pits 

With  cautious  feet  we  try  them. 
Our  rich  men's  faces  tell  their  wealth — 

Ten  thousand  for  each  wrinkle, 
And  on  a  ten  times  wizened  face 

Each  lady's  glance  will  twinkle. 

These  ladies  all  are  thin  and  tall, 
Large-eyed  and  pale — refined,  too ; 

Superbly  dressed— and  for  the  rest, 
Ask  them,  if  you've  a  mind  to. 


2Y6  The  Poetical  Works  of 


Some  people  say  they  have  a  way 

False  calves  and  busts  of  padding, 
And  their  teeth  are  sought  and  complexions  bought 

When  they  take  their  daily  gadding. 

Oh,  Muse  of  mine !  thy  classic  foot 

Once  wore  a  golden  sandal, 
But  thou  hast  fallen  on  punning  ways, 

And  c  !  it  is  a  s(c)andal. 
Thy  thoughts  are  turned  to  quiddities, 

The  tortured  language  teasing, 
For  he  who  once  but  lived  to  please, 

Has  now  to  live  by  pleasing. 


POLITICAL  OPIUM  DREAM. 

WRITTEN,  AFTER  SWALLOWING  THREE  DOVER'S  POWDERS,  BY   THE  POIOK  OF 

THE  "PEWTER  MUG.". 

In  weary,  nervous  plight,  one  night 

I  sighed  and  panted  for  the  light, 

While  buzzing  in  my  ear  a  clear 

Shrill  whisper  breathed  these  words  of  fear : 
Fernando  Wood  had  forty-one  thousand, 
Vowed  and  swore  he  had  forty-one  thousand, 
Swore  that  he  owned  full  forty-one  thousand — 
Forty-one  thousand  votes. 

I  groaned  and  could  not  sleep ;  a  deep 

And  dread  unquiet  made  me  keep 

Still  asking,  soon  or  late,  their  fate ; 

Then  came  the  dream  I  now  relate. 

A  vision  it  was  of  the  forty-one  thousand, 
All  that  is  left  of  the  forty-one  thousand, 
The  wretched  remains  of  the  forty-one  thousand — 
Forty-one  thousand  votes. 

Suppose  some  giant  "  bore"  of  yore 
Had  found  a  gimlet  more  and  more 
Gigantic  than  himself,  "and  he 
Nine  miles  in  height — circumference  three. 

Suppose  the  tool  so  found  around 
He  turned  and  twisted  in  the  ground, 
Working  to  let  some  daylight  through 
On  Kaffir  Land  or  Timbuctoo. 

Such  was  the  tortuous  pit,  unlit 
By  any  cheery  ray  of  day, 


.Charles  Graham  Hal/pine.  277 


Down  which  a  winding,  slippery  stair 
Curled,  black  and  dismal  as  despair. 

Still  from  the  dripping  walls  there  falls 
An  ooze  of  death  ;  each  step  appalls 
As  giddily  I  wound  around 
This  monstrous  corkscrew  under  ground. 

Each  step  new  echoes  woke,  which  broke 
Like  booming  guns  from  battle  smoke, 
And,  stifling  for  fresh  air,  the  stair 
Seemed  leading  down  to — you  know  where. 

Before  me  strode  a  guide,  with  wide 
Funereal  drapery  loosely  tied 
Round  head  and  waist ;  a  bull's-eye  lamp 
Shot  sickly  rays  through  dark  and  damp. 

At  length  we  reached  a  hall,  where  all 
A  thousand  galleries  met,  and  yet 
In  each  five  yards  of  corridor 
Stood  in  the  dripping  walls  a  door. 

At  one  my  grim  guide  paused,  and  caused 

A  door,  which  opened  with  a  spring, 

Back  on  its  rusty  hinge  to  swing — 

And  I  beheld  a  hideous  thing. 

Alack  and  alack  for  the  forty-one  thousand, 
Hither  had  come  the  forty-one  thousand, 
All  that  was  left  of  the  forty-one  thousand — 
Forty-one  thousand  votes. 

There  is  a  low  vault,  bare  and  square 
(Blue  burned  the  lamp  in  the  stagnant  air)  : 
I  saw  green  lizards  sprawl  and  fall 
On  drizzly  floor  from  slimy  Wall, 

While  ranged  around  the  room,  in  gloom 

More  deep  than  any  earthly  tomb, 

A  score  of  coffins  stood  on  end — 

"  Political  corpses,"  said  my  friend. 

Corpses  they  were  of  the  forty-one  thousand, 
Wretchedest  wreck  of  the  forty-one  thousand, 
All  that  were  left  of  the  forty-one  thousand — 
Forty-one  thousand  votes. 

Each  bore  a  brazen  plate,  to  state 
The  name,  style,  station,  natal  date 
Of  the  "  clean  beat"  who  groaned  within 
This  mortal  sentry-box  of  sin. 


278  The  Poetical  Works  of 


Advancing  to  the  first  accused, 

My  guide  tapped  lightly ;  the  lid  burst 

Wide  open,  and,  as  back  it  flew, 

The  ghastly  tenant  stood  in  view. 

Done  to  death  were  the  forty-one  thousand, 
Boxed  in  wood  were  the  forty-one  thousand, 
All  that  was  left  of  the  forty-one  thousand — 
Forty-one  thousand  votes. 

Protruding  from  the  clothes — there  flows 
A  shroud  round  each,  from  head  to  toes — 
I  saw  and  recognized  a  nose 
Such  as  the  people's  chairman  blows. 

And,  tapping  round  from  shell  to  shell, 

Each  lid  wide  open  slowly  fell, 

Revealing  in  this  chamel  hive 

The  following  "beats"  entombed  alive. 

Buried  alive  of  the  forty-one  thousand, 
Princes  and  sheiks  of  the  forty-one  thousand, 
Diddled  remains  of  the  forty-one  thousand — 
Forty-one  thousand  votes. 

Here  galorious  Dick  had  a  hue  of  blue, 
Mottled  and  streaked  in  the  parts  in  view ; 
And  brother  Ben  made  a  grand  display 
Of  "  proud  flesh"  turning  to  decay. 

Dick  Schell  looked  bad  in  his  white  pine  shell, 
And  the  weary  Drake  had  an  ancient  smell ; 
Cold  sweat  from  wretched  Ben  Fairchild  flows, 
And  Bill  M'Intyre  made  us  hold  our  nose ; 

For  "gamy"  were  they  of  the  forty-one  thousand — 
Forty-pne  thousand  votes. 

The  features  of  monkey  Gid  were  hid 

By  the  shroud  which  he  drew  when  his  coffin-lid 

Flew  back,  and  General  Hiram  he 

Was  as  "hi"  as  a  corpse  on  the  gallows-tree. 

Myriads  of  malt-worms,  fed  and  bred 

In  Seventh  Ward  bully  Riley's  head ; 

And  charming  Brownell  looked  almost  as  grisly 

As  the  skin-peeled  corpse  of  poor  Billy  Brisly. 

These  were  the  whole  of  the  forty-one  thousand, 
All  that  is  left  of  the  forty-one  thousand, 
Nary  a  more  of  the  forty-one  thousand — 
Forty-one  thousand  voters. 


Charles  Graham  Halpine. 


''Where  is  the  chief?"  I  said ;  "  for  dead 
I  know  he  must  be."     Every  head 
In  all  that  ghastly  crew  was  raised, 
And  fury  from  their  eyeballs  blazed. 

Each  from  beneath  his  shroud,  with  proud 
And  angry  gesture,  drew  to  view 
Some  limb  or  portion  of  the  chief, 
Now  made  "  political  hung  beef." 

Ben  Fairchild  had  the  hand  which  planned 
So  many  "  city  diddlings"  grand ;  .  * 

Gid  Tucker  had  his  rights — the  lights, 
Bile-duct,  and  spleen,  to  chew  o'  nights. 

Legs,  head,  and  breast  went  round ;  each  found 

His  only  solace  under  ground ; 

While  Brandy  Sour  was  glad  to  risk  it 

Upon  the  baser  parts  and  brisket 

Of  him  who  owned  the  forty-one  thousand, 
Boasted  and  swore  he  had  forty-one  thousand, 
Swaggered  and  lied  about  forty-one  thousand — 
Forty-one  thousand  votes. 

I  sickened,  and  my  brain,  with  pain 
And  nausea,  felt  a  nervous  strain. 
"  Avaunt !"  I  cried  ;  and,  with  a  clang, 
Back  every  coffin-cover  rang. 


A  SONG  FOR  WHITE  MEN. 

Old  Abe  is  good  to  crack  a  joke, 

Heigh-ho,  heigh-ho ! 
His  fun  in  stories  he  can  poke, 

Heigh-ho,  says  I ; 

But  there's  never  a  joke  that  he  can  crack 
Will  help  him  to  beat  our  Little  Mac, 
For  we  all  go  Mac  blind — 
Johnny,  fill  up  the  bowl. 

The  "  nigs"  for  Abe  the  best  may  do, 

Heigh-ho,  heigh-ho ! 
He  is  patron  saint  of  all  their  crew, 

Heigh-ho,  says  I ; 

But  we,  unfortunates,  who  are  white, 
Yet  for  the  nigger  have  to  fight — 
Oh,  we  all  go  Mac  blind — 
Johnny,  fill  up  the  bowl. 


280  The  Poetical  Works  of 


"We've  broken  the  Bebellion's  back," 

Heigh-ho,  heigh-ho ! 
Bill  Seward  swears  he  heard  it  crack, 

Heigh-ho,  says  I ; 

He  swore  'twas  broken  three  years  ago, 
But  we  see  the  tide  of  slaughter  flow, 
And  we  all  go  Mac  blind — 
Johnny,  fill  up  the  bowl. 

No  end  of  the  war  can  ever  come, 

.    Heigh-ho,  heigh-ho ! 
We  shall  hear  the  roll  of  the  murd'rous  drum, 

Heigh-ho,  says  I, 

Until  at  the  head  of  affairs  we  place 
The  chosen  chief  of  the  martial  race, 
And  we  all  go  Mac  blind — 
Johnny,  fill  up  the  bowl. 

Four  millions  of  dollars  every  day, 

Heigh-ho,  heigh-ho! 
For  this  nigger  war  we  are  forced  to  pay, 

Heigh-ho,  says  I ; 

And  there's  never  a  hope,  in  Lincoln's  track, 
Of  winning  our  good  old  Union  back, 
So  we  all  go  Mac  blind — 
Johnny,  fill  up  the  bowl. 

For  liberty  of  speech  and  press, 

Heigh-ho,  heigh-ho ! 
For  outraged  rights  we  seek  redress, 

Heigh-ho,  says  I; 
The  lettre  de  cachet  and  Bastile 
Are  things  to  make  every  freeman  feel 
We  should  all  go  Mac  blind — 
•  Johnny,  fill  up  the  bowl. 

To  Sherman,  Farragut,  and  Grant, 

Heigh-ho,  heigh-ho ! 
Who  our  flag  o'er  conquered  cities  plant, 

Heigh-ho,  says  I, 

We  fill  the  bumper  and  pledge  the  toast, 
And  to  give  them  the  aid  they  need  the  most, 
We  all  go  Mac  blind — 
Johnny,  fill  up  the  bowl. 

With  Mac  at  the  head  of  our  weaponed  clans. 

Heigh-ho,  heigh-ho! 
No  "political  dodges''  would  mar  their  plans. 

Heigh-ho,  says  I ; 


Charles  Graham  Ilalpine.  281 


And  therefore  Farragut,  Sherman,  Grant, 
Declare  "that  Mac  is  the  chief  they  want," 
And  we  all  go  Mac  blind — 
Johnny,  fill  up  the  bowl. 

To  all  our  heroes  in  the  field, 

Heigh-ho,  heigh-ho ! 
Knowing  how  to  die,  but  not  to  yield, 

Heigh-ho,  says  I, 

We  fill  the  bumper  and  pledge  the  toast, 
And  to  give  them  the  aid  they  need  the  most, 
We  all  go  Mac  blind — 
Johnny,  fill  up  the  bowl. 


WAR  DEMOCRATIC  VIEW  OF  M'CLELLAN'S  NOMINA 
TION. 

"He  will  immediately  take  steps  to  bring  about  a  cessation  of  hostilities.1 

Chicago  Platform. 
Private  OReilly,  solus : 

Air:  "  Ould  Ireland,  you're  my  darling" 
May  I  niver  taste  bite  nor  sup  to-night, 

But  I  joy  to  hear  the  story, 
For  the  rebels'll  catch  in  M'Clellan  their  match, 

An'  we'll  soon  have  "payee"  wid  glory. 
Such  "  steps"  he  will  take  as'll  make  'em  awake 

To  a  sinse  of  their  situation, 
An'  wid  thrayson  dead  on  a  bloody  bed, 
Of  the  war  we  shall  have  "  a  cessation." 

Chorus  of  soldiers : 

Air:  " Yankee  Doodle." 

That's  the  kind  of  talk  for  us, 

That's  the  peace  we  covet — 

Treason  dead  on  a  bloody  bed, 

And  our  starry  flag  above  it. 

Private  O'Reilly,  as  before : 

Little  Mac's  the  man  wid  a  wholesome  plan 

For  an  airly  "  payee"  attainin' ; 
Wid  threble  might  to  purshue  the  fight, 

Decisive  thriumphs  gainin'. 
We  do  hate  an'  abhor  every  form  o'  war — 

We  but  fight  for  conciliation, 
An'  with  thrayson  dead  on  a  bloody  bed, 

Of  the  war  we  shall  have  "a  cessation." 


282  The  Poetical  Works  of 

Chorus  vj' soldiers,  as  before: 

That's  the  kind  of  talk  for  us, 

That's  the  peace  we  covet — 
Treason  dead  on  a  bloody  bed, 

And  the  stars  and  stripes  above  it. 

Private  O'Reilly,  as  before: 

Och !  the  hour  is  nigh  to  see  them  fly 

In  wild  confusion  scatthered, 
From  their  broken  lines  an'  their  murdherin'  mines, 

An'  their  earthworks  torn  an'  tatthered. 
Wid  a  fiery  brand  in  wan  stout  hand, 

An'  an  olive-branch  in  the  other, 
They  will  all  come  back  undher  "  Little  Mac," 

An'  we'll  have  an  end  o'  the  bother. 

Chorus  of  soldiers,  as  before : 

That  comes  home  to  the  Southern  heart, 

That's  the  way  to  strike  it — 
The  brand  in  hand  if  you  still  withstand, 

The  olive-branch  if  you  like  it. 


HURRA  FOR  ANDY  JOHNSON. 

Air;  "  Ould  Ireland,  you're  my  jewel,  sure." 

Och,  Andy,  you're  my  jewel,  shure, 

For  you  our  hearts  are  sighin' ; 
'Tis  your  thrue  aim  that  bags  the  game, 

An'  sets  the  feathers  fly  in'. 
Full  many  a  duck  your  shot  has  sthruck, 

As  you  make  your  sportin' journey, 
But — ourselves  between — shure  there  never  was  seen 

Such  a  clip  as  you  gave  John  Forney. 
Och,  Andy  dear,  some  people  here, 

They  say  that  your  thrade  was  a  tailor's, 
An'  'twas  this,  no  less,  makes  you  give,  I  guess, 

Such  fits  to  them  Jacobin  railers. 

Go  on,  my  boy !  our  counthry's  joy 

Is  at  stake  upon  your  succeedin' ; 
Let  the  Jacobins  rave  till  aich  whey-faced  knave 

Is  choked  up  wid  the  venom  he's  breedin'. 
You  are  on  the  right  thrack  to  win  for  us  back — 

For  shure  love  is  a  powerful  magnet — 
The  union  of  hand  and  of  heart  in  the  land, 

Which  these  rogues  would  thransfix  wid  a  bagnet. 


Charles  Graham  Halpine.  283 


Och,  Andy,  dear,  your  friends  are  here, 

Down  far  in  the  sowls  o'  the  people ; 
An'  if  we  had  our  say,  all  who'd  bar  your  way — 

Faix !  they'd  swing  from  ould  Thrinity's  stheeple. 

To  bring  back  the  states  within  our  gates 

As  sisthers,  we  thought  was  our  sole  end.; 
The  Union,  'twas  for  that  we  bled  in  the  war — 

Not  to  make  o'  the  South  a  new  Poland. 
But  now  these  rogues  who  do  the  collogues 

In  the  Sinate— from  which  the  Lord  save  us  ! — . 
Shure  they  cry,  it  is  said,  that  the  Union  is  dead, 

Just  as  loud  as  did  ever  Jeff  Davis. 
But,  Andy,  dear,  while  you  are  here, 

Our  Union  no  power  can  sever ; 
An',  despite  all  their  clack,  we  shall  soon  have  it  back, 

An'  the  ould  flag  shall  float  forever. 


THE  ALDERMAN'S  GHOST-. 

BEING  A  SPIEITtJAL  MANIFESTATION  FROM  A  MEMBER  OF  THE  DEFUNCT 
CORPORATION  OF  NEW  YORK  KNOWN  IN  LOCAL  HISTORY  AS  "THE  FORTY 
THIEVES." 

Hurra  for  Judge  Edmonds !     I  have  had 

A  mystical  manifestation ; 
I  saw  last  night — don't  think  me  mad — 

A  ghost  from  the  Corporation. 
It  came  to  my  room — 'tis  truth  I  tell — 

And  rapped  upon  the  table ; 
Alive,  it  loved  the  table  well, 

And  dead,  as  well  as  it's  able. 

Said  I,  while  I  felt  each  sinew  heave, 

And  the  dew  on  my  forehead  gather, 
•  Is  that  the  spirit  of  Mother  Eve, 

Or  the  ghost  of  a  city  father  ? 
The  table  stood  up  like  a  fighting-cock, 

And  danced  with  a  glee  satanic ; 
It  rapped  with  force  of  a  thunder-shock, 

"The  spirit  is  aldermanic. " 

How  did  you  die  ?     Come  tell  me  smack — 

Was  it  eating  turtle-soup,  or 
ATI  overdose  of  the  canvas-back  ? 

' '  I  died  of  Peter  Cooper ; 


284  The  Poetical  Works  of 

An  overdose  of  the  canvass  too" 

(The  spirit  a  pun  was  sharp  at)  ; 
The  table  here  delirious  grew, 

And  rolled  over  and  over  the  carpet. 
How  fare  you  now  in  the  spirit-land  ? 

Are  you  melancholic  or  merry  ? 
Have  you  got  any  good  fat  jobs  on  hand — 

A  railroad  or  a  ferry  ? 
*'  I  find  the  spirits  are  regular  bricks, 
^  Nor  the  place  of  fat  jobs  barren ; 
I'll  sell  the  monopoly  of  the  Styx, 

And  oust  the  ferryman,  Charon." 

Have  you  got  a  lobby  ring  up  in  the  skies, 

Or  are  your  briberies  mental  ? 
Is  there  any  mayor  in  his  strength  to  rise 

With  a  veto  transcendental  ? 
"  I  taste,  as  ever  I  did,  the  sweets 

Of  jobs  the  most  nefarious ; 
And  I  mean  to  appoint  to  cleanse  tke  streets 

A  mystical  Arcularius. " 

God  help  the  spirits,  then,  I  cried — 

Is  there  no  one  to  guard  or  care  'em  ? 
If  one  were  to  think  of  suicide, 

Such  a  thought  as  this  would  scare  him  ; 
For,  bad  as  it  is  on  earth  below — 

And  it  makes  our  heart-strings  quiver — 
Just  think  of  an  aldermanic  woe 

Inflicted  up  there  forever. 


NEBRASKA  AND  KANSAS. 
Air:  " Eliza,  tny  darling,  you  know — you  know." 
The  Arabs  are  happy — no  doubt,  no  doubt — 

The  Arabs  are  happy — and  why  ? 
It  ain't  that  they  scamper  about,  about, 

Just  as  free  as  the  clouds  in  the  sky. 
'Tis  because  they  ain't  worried,  and  scurried,  and  hurried 

With  cries  of  "  Nebraska"  and  "  Kansas ;" 
They  lie  under  palm-trees,  enjoying  the  balm  breeze, 

And  sing  the  "  sweet  moon"  in  sweet  stanzas. 

Icelanders  are  happy — no  doubt,  no  doubt — 

Icelanders  are  happy — and  why  ? 
It  ain't  that  for  train-oil  they  sho*ut,  they  shout, 

And  snug  in  their  snow  hovels  lie. 


diaries  Graham  Halpine.  285 


'Tis  because  that  "  Nebraska''  (to  rhyme  that's  a  task,  all ! 

But  else  I  must  tear  up  my  stanzas) 
Has  never  perplexed  them,  and  wofully  vexed  them, 

Nor  care  they  a  seal-skin  for  "  Kansas." 

The  Fejees  are  happy— no  doubt,  no  doubt — 

The  Fejees  are  happy — and  why  ? 
'Taint  because  our  friend  Kimball,  with  tabret  and  cymbal, 

Exalted  their  mermaid  on  high  ; 
'Tis  because  (every  man  says)  "Nebraska"  and  "  Kansas" 

Don't  frighten  them  out  of  their  lives ; 
They  have  dwellings  of  coral,  and  (wise  men  and  moral) 

They  sport  with  their  salmon-tailed  wives. 

But  we  are  unhappy — no  doubt,  no  doubt — 

But  we  are  most  wretched — and  why  ? 
'Tis  because  we  are  deafened,  and  crippled,  and  spavined 

With  buncombe,  and  bosh,  and  "my  eye.'* 
We  offer  a  passage,  a  horse,  and  an  ass  each, 

To  these  Quixotes  and  sleek  Sancho  Panzas 
Who  share  our  communion,  yet  tilt  at  the  Union, 

If  they'll  put  for  "  Nebraska"  and  *'  Kansas." 


BOB  SMITH,  OF  FULTON  STREET. 

A   BALLAD  OF   RECONSTRUCTION  AND   REHABILITATION. 

Hail,  Bobbie  Smith,  mine  ancient  friend, 

My  harp  hath  sung  your  matchless  garments 
Long  years  before  I  southward  went 

To  fight  them  cussed  secession  varmints. 
You're  on  the  square,  my  bully  Bob, 

Your  honest  faith  no  traffic  smothers, 
And,  when  I  want  a  clothing  job, 

I'll  deal  with  you  before  all  others. 

I  like  you,  Bob.     Your  clothes  I  find 

Just  like  your  friendship — warm  and  lasting ; 
No  mean  thought  ever  crossed  your  mind, 

Its  shadow  on  your  actions  casting. 
One  price  you  ask— small  profit  sought — 

And  men  must  give  the  price  or  leave  it ; 
I  write  of  you  my  honest  thought, 

And  those  who  read  had  best  believe  it. 

Go  in,  my  Bob,  and  make  and  sell 
Your  clothes  till  covering  all  creation  ; 

The  friends  who  know  you  love  you  well, 
And  you  have  friends  throughout  the  nation. 


286  The  Poetical  Works  of 


•    Deal  with  our  erring  brethren  South 

Kindly  and  well — for  still  they're  cranky 
And  put  this  saying  in  their  mouth — 
"At  least  there  is  one  honest  Yankee." 


THE  CRY  IS  MAC,  MY  DARLIN'. 

Air:  "Oh,  my  Nora  Creina,  dear." 

Mac,  my  darlin',  proud  I  am 

To  hear  that  you've  been  nominated ; 
Last  we  met  at  Antietam, 

Where  you  the  rebel  might  abated ; 
In  the 'Seven  Days'  fight  I  stood 

Beside  you  on  the  hills  an'  meadows, 
And  while  our  brave  boys  poured  their  blood, 
We  know  your  heart  was  throbbin'  wid  us. 
Oh,  my  captain,  dear  an'  thrue, 

The  coward  tongues  that  would  ignore  you 
Are  base  as  false — thank  Heaven  they're  few ! — 
Your  soldiers  thrust  you  an'  adore  you. 

Abe  may  crack  his  jolly  jokes 

O'er  bloody  fields  of  sthricken  battle, 
While  yet  the  ebbin'  life-tide  shmokes 

From  men  that  die  like  butchered  cattle ; 
He,  ere  yet  the  guns  grow  cold, 

To  pimps  an'  pets  may  crack  his  stories — 
Your  name  is  of  the  grander  mould, 

And  linked  wid  all  our  brightest  glories. 
Oh,  my  general,  loved  an'  thrue, 

The  lyin'  tongues  that  would  defame  you 
Are  base  as  false — thank  Heaven  they're  few ! — 
For  as  our  chosen  chief  we  claim  you. 

They  say — these  dogs  of  currish  heart, 
Who  never  heard  a  Minie  whistle — 
You'd  let  the  Union  drift  apart 

Like  down-flakes  from  a  shaken  thistle ;  ' 
They  say,  oh  captain — but  the  words 

Stick  in  our  throats — we  can't  adjust  'em — 
But  lift  to  heaven  our  dinted  swords, 
An'  answer  only  this,  ' '  We  thrust  him. " 
Yes,  oh  friend  of  rights  an'  laws, 

Despite  the  sneers  of  fool  or  craven, 
Where  hearts  beat  highest  for  the  cause, 

You  have  your  home,  your  shrine,  and  haven. 


Charles  Graham  Haljpine.  287 


Wid  patient  toil  an'  pityin'  breast 

You  sought  your  soldiers'  blood  to  threasure, 
Nor  ever  tried  the  cruel  test 

How  much  we  could  endure  to  measure. 
They  feared  you,  for  they  saw  our  love ; 

To  win  success  they  would  not  let  you ; 
But  while  the  white  stars  shine  above, 
The  boys  you  led  will  ne'er  forget  you. 
Yes,  our  captain,  prized  an'  thrue, 

Desert  you  we  would  perish  rather ; 
Thank  Heaven  the  hearts  are  not  a  few 
That  call  you  brother,  friend,  and  father. 


"THERE'S  NO  SUCH  WORD  AS  FAIL,  BOYS. 

BY  ONE  OP  THE  RANK  AND  FILE. 

Air:  "The  low-backed  car." 
M'Dowell's  day  is  over — 

A  true  and  gallant  man, 
With  a  heart  as  big  as  a  bullock's  heart, 

But  wanting  a  head  to  plan. 
Now  brighter  hours  are  dawning, 

And  brighter  hopes  we  hail, 
For  with  young  M'Clellan  to  lead  our  lines, 
There's  no  such  word  as  fail — 

There's  no  such  word  as  fail,  boys — 
There's  no  such  word  as  fail ; 
For  with  young  M'Clellan  to  lead  our  lines, 
There's  no  such  word  as  fail. 

No  fault  against  M 'Dow ell, 

No  blame  have  we  to  urge, 
He  wasn't  a  red-tape  martinet, 

That  soldiers'  pest  and  scourge. 
Warm-hearted  was  M'Dowell, 

His  courage  proof  of  mail, 
But  he  did  belong  to  that  luckless  class 
Who  do  know  how  to  fail — 

Who  do  know  how  to  fail,  boys, 
As  witness  all  our  men, 
But  with  young  M'Clellan  to  lead  our  lines, 
We'll  try  the  game  again. 

Virginia's  western  counties 

Resound  M'Clellan's  name, 
Philippi,  Grafton,  Romney.  are 

The  first-fruits  of  his  fame. 


288  The  Poetical  Works  of 


And  soon  the  lurid  halo 

Of  the  rebel  flag  shall  pale, 
For  M'Clellan  belongs  to  the  chosen  class 
Who  don't  know  how  to  fail — 

Who  don't  know  how  to  fail,  boys, 
Who  won't  know  how  to  fail — 
Who  couldn't  be  taught,  at  whatever  price, 
The  will  or  the  way  to  fail. 

So  burnish  up  your  weapons,  boys, 

And  keep  your  powder  dry, 
Bull  Run  will  have  done  us  a  deal  of  good 

When  next  the  game  we  try. 
One  fair,  square  chance  but  give  us,  boys, 

And  you'll  see  the  rebels  quail, 
For  our  leader  is  now  of  the  chosen  class 
Who  don't  know  how  to  fail — 

Who  don't  know  how  to  fail,  boys, 
Who  won't  know  how  to  fail, 
And  who  can  not  be  taught,  at  whatever  price, 
The  will  or  the  way  to  fail. 


LIVE-OAK  GEORGE. 

Here's  to  the  man  who  of  birth  never  boasts, 
Who  has  girdled  with  commerce  our  seas  and  our  coasts, 
On  whose  flag  the  old  sun  never  ceases  to  shine, 
From  the  east  to  the  west,  from  the  pole  to  the  line. 
Live-oak  George, 
Live-oak  George, 
He'll  make  the  politicians 
All  their  spoils  disgorge. 

He  ne'er  to  the  mean  arts  of  toadying  flew, 
He  kept  himself  clear  of  the  caucusing  crew — 
Relied  on  his  worth  and  the  will  he  had  shown, 
That  Americans  still  should  America  own. 
Live-oak  George, 
Live-oak  George, 

He  soon  .vill  make  the  Galphin  crew 
Their  spoils  disgorge. 

When  poor,  and  a  boy,  he  came  into  our  town, 
The  Albany  Regency  trampled  us  down ; 
But  the  old  fogy  tyrants  have  now  to  give  way 
To  the  king  of  the  steam-boats — the  man  of  the  day. 


diaries  Graham  Halpine.  280 


Live-oak  George, 

Live-oak  George, 
Tis  he  will  make  the  harpy  crew 
Their  gains  disgorge. 

He  sought  for  no  place  and  he  courted  no  clique — 
If  him  they  desired,  it  was  their  place  to  seek — 
It  was  stanch  Pennsylvania  the  first  that  did  draw 
Her  sword  from  the  scabbard  for  honest  George  Law. 
Live-oak  George, 
Live-oak  George, 
'Tis  he  will  make  old  parties 
All  their  gains  disgorge. 

But  others  have  followed,  and  others  will  come, 
Like  soldiers  to  roll-call  of  fife  and  of  drum ; 
For  the  man  that  among  us  most  voters  can  draw, 
Oh  !  who  should  he  be  but  our  Live-oak  George  Law  ? 
Live-oak  George, 
Live-oak  George, 

He'll  make  some  foreign  monarchs 
All  their  pride  disgorge. 

Then  bumpers  around  to  the  man  of  the  day — 
The  "  grip"  and  the  "  word,"  and  let  fate  have  its  way ; 
All  true  men  around  the  proud  standard  will  draw,     •' 
Which,  in  famed  fifty-six,  bears  the  name  of  George  Law. 
Live-oak  George, 
Live-oak  George, 
Like  one  of  his  own  clippers, 
Into  port  he'll  surge. 

Then  here's  to  the  man  who  has  made  himself  all 
That  wealthy,  respected,  and  honored  we  call ; 
Too  long,  under  soldiers  and  lawyers,  we  saw 
Our  country  degraded — we'll  now  try  George  Law. 
Live-oak  George, 
Live-oak  George, 

'Tis  he  will  make  the  Galphin  crew 
Their  gains  disgorge. 


SONG  OF  THE  NATIONAL  DEMOCRACY.4' 

To  the  Albany  chiefs  the  War  Democrats  spoke. 
Ere  you  play  the  old  game,  there  are  slates  to  be  broke ; 
Your  words  are  all  right  if  they  only  were  true,     * 
But  beneath  the  war  flag  you've  a  Copperhead  crew. 


290  The  Poetical  Works  of 


So  fill  up  the  cup,  be  it  brandy  or  bier, 
Resurrect  the  war-hatchet  and  sharpen  the  spear ; 
In  November  we'll  have  an  almighty  big  row, 
And  to  Copperhead  doctrines  be — well,  if  we  bow. 

Dean  Richmond  his  stomach  may  pat,  and  may  pinch 

His  jolly  red  nose  till  it  lengthens  an  inch ; 

But  he  can't  make  us  think  his  professions  are  true 

While  he  sails  his  war  ship  with  a  Copperhead  crew. 
So  fill  up  the  cup,  whisky,  claret,  or  bier, 
Resurrect  the  war-hatchet  and  sharpen  the  spear : 
There  are  braves  on  the  war-path  prepared  for  a  row, 
And  to  Breckinridge  doctrines.be — well,  if  we  bow. 

The  bold  Pete  de  Cagger,  with  mystery  big, 
May  adjust  each  stray  hair  in  his  amber-hued  wig, 
But  his  arts,  though  potential,  are  well  understood — 
If  his  platform  be  honest,  why  runs  he  with  Wood  ? 
So  fill  up  the  cup — things  look  certainly  queer- 
Resurrect  the  war-hatchet  and  sharpen  the  spear ; 
With  the  lords  of  the  "  Central"  we're  in  for  a  row. 
And  to  Richmond  and  Cagger  be — well,  if  we  bow. 

To  the  tenets  of  Douglas  we  tenderly  cling, 
Warm  hearts  to  the  cause  of  our  country  we  bring ; 
To  the  flag  we  are  pledged — all  its  foes  we  abhor — 
And  we  ain't  for  the  "nigger,"  but  are  for  the  war. 
So  fill  up  the  cup — pleasant  tipple  is  bier — 
Resurrect  the  war-hatchet  and  sharpen  the  spear ; 
With  the  Albany  chiefs  we  are  in  for  a  row, 
And  their  sceptre  we'll  break,  or  their  heads  they  shall  bow 

It  may  suit  the  subservient  old  War  Horse  to  say 

He  is  "willing  to  follow  where  Pete  leads  the  way  ;" 

That,  with  gayety,  he  as  blank  paper  will  yield 

Himself  to  the  power  which  the  Regency  wield. 
Oh,  so  great  doth  your  gayety,  Purdy,  appear, 
That  we  drink  your  good  health  in  a  bumper  of  bier ; 
And  after  November's  slate-smashing  grand  row, 
We'll,  with  gayety,  make  you  our  very  best  bow. 

Such  things  do  for  some  folks,  but  don't  do  for  us, 
Who  for  Pruyn,  Cagger,  Cassidy,  don't  care  a  cuss ; 
To  the  flag  we  are  pledged — all  its  foes  we  abhor — 
And  first,  last,  all  the  time,  we  are  in  for  the  war. 
So  fill  up  the  cup — healthy  drinking  is  bier — 
Resurrect  the  war-axe  and  sharpen  the  spear ; 
In  the  Wigwam,  next  April,  all  factions  we'll  hush, 
And  for  new  men  to  lead  Ave'll  go  in  with  a  rush. 


Charles  Graham  Halpine.  291 


The  platform  of  Logan,  Grant,  Gillmore,  and  Dix 

Is  better  than  any  that  managers  fix : 

"Our  flag  in  its  glory!  our  Union  restored, 

And,  till  treason  cries  quarter,  no  sheath  to  the  sword !" 
So  fill  up  the  cup  with  much  better  than  bier, 
The  big  spring  is  bubbling,  its  waters  are  clear — 
Democracy's  fountain — and  thus  at  its  brink, 
"To  the  memory  of  Douglas"  with  bowed  heads  we  drink. 


A  DEMOCRATIC  EALLY. 

Bring  forth  the  ancient  standards,  the  old  time  faith  renew, 
March  all  and  march  together,  brothers  tried  and  ever  true ; 
Fall  in  and  take  your  places,  call  the  roll,  and  let  us  hear 
Who  are  for  us,  who  against  us,  in  the  strife  that  draws  anear. 
Now  Treason  stands  with  bloody  hands, 

Her  long-worn  mask  discarded,  „ 

And  we  are  they  by  whom  to-day 
The  Union  must  be  guarded. 

Forget  all  past  dissensions  in  the  greatness  of  the  hour ; 
For  Union  let  the  Empire  State  send  forth  a  voice  of  power ; 
When  villains  league  to  do  a  wrong,  let  the  true  combine  for  'right, 
And  we'll  soon  choke  out  the  mutiny  which  traitors  would  incite. 
Revealed,  opposed,  their  plot  disclosed, 

Treason  shall  sink  confounded ; 
No  servile  strife,  with  torch  and  knife, 
Shall  through  our  land  be  hounded. 

Oh,  brothers,  rally  to  the  flag,  for  ours  the  glorious  mission, 
True  to  the  bond  that  Jackson  sealed  to  banish  all  division ; 
A  common  fame,  a  common  name,  a  common  good  to  cherish, 
These  are  the  rights  which  freemen  claim  content  for  these  to  perish. 
No  frantic  hordes  with  reeking  swords 

Our  sister  states  shall  plunder  ; 
And  they  whose  thought  first  hatched  the  plot, 
Its  wreck  let  them  lie  under. 

Come  all  who  love  our  fatherland,  and  reverence  each  name 
Shouted  from  Freedom's  hill-tops  in  the  morning  of  our  fame ; 
On  Treason  let  the  Empire  State  be  first  to  place  a  brand, 
And  foremost  of  all  cities  let  the  Empire  City  stand. 
Let  all  combine  who  will  not  join 

In  treason's  foul  communion, 

And  let  our  shout  ring  boldly  out 

For  nationhood  and  Union. 


292  The  Poetical  Works  of 


The  good  and  great  of  every  state  will  hail  our  restoration, 
New  York  once  more  shall  take  her  place  as  vanguard  of  the  nation  ; 
East,  West,  and  South — a  thrill,  a  cheer,  our  victor  war-cry  pealing, 
Shall  rouse  again  in  all  true  men  the  old  time's  holy  feeling. 
Our  ship  of  state  will  ride  elate, 

In  Union's  harbor  anchored, 
And  future  days  shall  live  to  praise 
The  peace  New  York  hath  conquered. 


SENATOR  TOM  ON  CLAMS.49 

From  the  cool  bosom  of  the  sand, 

Washed  by  the  flood  and  ebbing  tide, 
These  savory  bivalves  come  to  hand, 

And  form  the  theme  of  Develin's  pride. 
More  sweet  than  venison's  roasted  haunch, 

Or  birds  of  paradise  stewed  with  yams, 
Are  these  rare  bivalves  of  Long  Branch — 

This  precious  breed  of  Develin's  clams. 

These  female  clams,  from  sand  and  foam, 

Rise  up  exemplars  to  our  life ; 
For  they  are  always  found  at  home, 

As  should  be  each  domestic  wife. 
No  bills  for  dry  goods  do  they  launch, 

Nor  diamonds — whether  true  or  shams— 
These  prudent  bivalves  of  Long  Branch — 

These  rarely  prudent  Develin  clams. 

Seldom,  if  ever,  do  they  talk  ; 

Their  mouths  with  maiden  pride  they  close 
Nor  ever  in  the  moonlight  walk 

Too  long  and  late  with  clammy  beaus. 
Their  love  is  pure,  their  hearts  are  stanch, 

They  are  just  as  innocent  as  lambs — 
These  coy,  young  bivalves  of  Long  Branch — 

This  precious  breed  of  Develin's  clams. 

No  crinoline  enshrouds  their  limbs, 

Nor  penciled  Jash,  nor  paint's  endeavor, 
But  each  in  the  pure  water  swims, 

;' A  thing  of  beauty  and  joy  forever." 
They  never  quit  their  native  ranche, 

Hotels  of  cost  in  summer  Avooing — 
These  patient  bivalves  of  Long  Branch, 

They  live  in  bliss,  and  die  in  stewing. 


Charles  Graham  Halpine.  293 


No  "rats"  or  "mice"  are  in  their  beard, 

They  never  like  promiscuous  gadding, 
And  in  their  plumpness,  who  has  heard 

Of  any  "artificial  padding?" 
Their  simple  souls  no  fear  can  blanch, 

They  envy  not  their  prettier  neighbors — 
These  simple  bivalves  of  Long  Branch, 

Whose  bake  now  claims  our  Develin's  labors. 

To  Weed,  whose  pen  with  bolder  lines 
»  Our  lady-clams  can  paint  more  truly, 
My  feebler  pen  the  task  resigns 

Of  picturing  all  their  virtues  fully. 
To  him — yet  vigorous,  fresh,  and  stanch, 

8ound  in  the  chest,  and  head,  and  hams, 
I  leave  these  bivalves  of  Long  Branch — 

This  dear  sweet  brood  of  Develin's  clams. 


SENATOR  GWIN  TO  BUCHANAN. 

Air:  "Wlien  first  I  knew  thee,  warm  and  young." 

When  first  I  knew  thee,  gray  and  old, 

Such  treachery  gleamed  about  thee — 
So  heartless  wert  thou,  and  so  cold, 
That  instinct  bade  me  doubt  thee. 
I  knew  thee  false  in  every  trait, 

A  vain  and  cruel  master, 
But  hoped  that  bonds  of  common  hate 
To  me  would  tie  thee  faster. 
But  go,  deceiver,  go, 

No  tears  my  grave  may  water 
Like  those  which  ever  flow 

O'er  Broderick's  bed  of  slaughter. 

When  every  tongue  to  freedom  born 

Denounced  thy  party  treason, 
.  I  found  in  this  prevailing  scorn 

For  faith  in  thee  fresh  reason — 
"  He  must  be  true,  for  all  are  foes 

Except  the  slaves  of  custom  ; 
The  leper  with  the  leprous  goes, 
And  therefore  we  may  trust  him. " 
But  go,  deceiver,  go, 

Bright  and  Fitch  will  leave  thee  later, 
And  Bigler,  with  despairing  throe. 
Confess  he  served  a  traitor. 


294  The  Poetical  Works  of 


And  yet,  J.  B.,  the  time  is  near 

When  even  Slidell  shall  leave  thee ; 
And  Davis,  seized  with  ghastly  fear, 

To  death  and  ruin  heave  thee ; 
Missouri  Greene  shall  kick  thee  down, 

Bayard  thy  bones  will  batter, 
And  puffs  from  Constitution  Browne 
Will  lose  their  power  to  flatter. 
But  go,  'tis  vain  to  curse, 

And  weakness  to  upbraid  thee, 
Hate  can  not  wish  thee  worse 

Than  Black  Lecompton  made  thee. 

Even  now,  though  still  some  months  are  left 

For  public  pay  and  booty, 
Thy  minions,  of  all  pride  bereft, 

Yet  scorn  their  abject  duty. 
Augustus  Schell,  that  veriest  slave 

Of  all  the  slaves  beneath  you, 
Will  throw  no  flower  upon  your  grave — 
With  naught  but  curses  wreathe  you. 
But  go ;  the  task  was  thine 
Our  land  to  rend  asunder ; 
And  many  a  vote  of  mine 

You  bought  for  so  much  plunder. 

Even  Breckinridge,  who  on  bent  knee 

Thy  favor  now  importunes, 
Shall  curse  the  day  he  linked  with  thee 

His  erstwhile  lucky  fortunes. 
And  on  our  country's  record-page 

Thy  name,  in  scarlet  letters, 
Shall  glisten  to  the  latest  age, 
With  Arnold's  linked  in  fetters. 
But  go,  thou  poor  old  man ; 
N  'Tis  Heaven  from  ruin  kept  her ; 
And  now,  beneath  thy  country's  ban, 
Kesign  her  sullied  sceptre. 


THE  SEVENTH  TO  JOHN  COCHRANE. 

Accept,  oh  prince  of  phrases  round, 
This  token  of  esteem  profound 

From  those  you  made  your  care — 
From  those  to  whom,  with  generous  hand, 
In  words  that  made  each  heart  expand, 

You  tendered  "  princely  fare." 


Charles  Graham  Halpine. 


High  was  the  summons,  great  the  need, 
And  splendid  the  reward  decreed 

To  all — so  said  your  pen — 
Who'd  share  the  task  of  rendering  praise 
To  Washington,  and  those  "  stern  days 

Which  tried  the  souls  of  men." 

Those  dreary  days  of  gloom  and  want, 
Discomfort  plenty,  rations  scant, 
*       Lortg  marches,  and  hard  fighting — 
Your  splendid  art  recalled  the  whole, 
And  verily  you  tried  each  soul 

With  hunger  sharp  and  biting. 

Knee-deep  in  mud,  no  welcome  given, 
Drenched  with  the  frozen  sleet  of  heaven, 

No  roof — no  tent  provided ; 
No  drop  to  drink — no  food  to  eat — 
Shivering  and  starving  in  the  street, 

Cold,  hungry,  and  derided. 

As  thus  we  slept  upon  our  arms, 
Thinking  of  home's  deserted  charms — 

The  comforts  vanished  from  us — 
There  rose  before  each  grateful  mind, 
With  sweetest  memories  entwined, 

Your  highly  "princely  promise." 

And  then  we  vowed,  in  whispers  low, 
Some  fitting  presents  to  bestow 

(You're  cute,  but  we'll  be  cuter) — 
These  slop-bowls,  tea  and  coffee  kettles — 
This  set  of  plate  our  debt  half  settles, 
Cast  in  the  most  appropriate  metals 

Of  nickel,  brass,  and  pewter. 

So  take  them,  Cochrane,  and  you'll,  find 
In  this  tall  coffee-pot  enshrined 

Promotion  coming  faster : 
A  testimonial  which  repeats 
That  the  great  Lodge  of  Healthy  Beats — 
The  Clean,  the  Dead,  Past  Grands,  and  Sweets — 
Admiring  your  astounding  feats, 
Without  once  rising  from  their  seats — 
On  the  first  ballot — the  first  choice — 
Without  even  one  dissenting  voice — 

Have  voted  you  Grand  Master. 


296  The  Poetical  Works  of 


GRAND  ROUT  OF  THE  NABOBS. 

CONTINUATION  OP  THE  ILIAD  BY  ANOTHER  HAND.      8EKMON8  AND  SODA-WATER 
NEEDED.' 

Time—  Early  morning.  Scene—  Parlor  in  the  Fifth  Avenue  Hotel  Cigar- 
stumps,  empty  Champagne  bottles,  and  Vigilant- Salamander- Safe-Commit 
tee-men  lying  loose  around.  Enter  the  chaplain  of  the  movement  with  a 
tray  of  cocktails.  He  surveys  the  room  and  sings : 

Oh,  the  nabobs  came  down  like  the  wolf  on  the  fold, 
And  their  noses  were  purple,  their  shirt-studs  were  gold 
In  political  life  every  man  strove  to  shine, 
And  the  liquor  they  quaffed  it  was  Verzenay  wine. 

Like  young  sprouts  of  asparagus,  sappy  and  green, 
At  the  Everett,  a  month  since,  these  nabobs  Avere  seen ; 
But,  like-  frostbitten  pumpkins,  all  wilted  and  blue, 
They  now  turn  up  their  toes  in  the  Fifth  Ave-noo. 

For  St.  Tammany's  trumpet  aroused  a  great  host, 
And  the  spirit  of  manhood  rebelled  at  their  boast ; 
Mere  toadstools  of  lucre,  the  growth  of  a  night, 
These  nabobs  have  wilted  beneath  the  dawn's  light. 

Here  lie  Sam  and  Cisco — with  nostrils  all  wide — 
No  more  with  the  nabobs  allowed  to  abide ; 
And,  wearied  from  laughing  at  all  that  has  been, 
Lo !  here  sleeps  the  red-bearded  Indian  serene. 

And  Baldwin,  the  polywog  pale-face,  lies  there ; 
And  Forrest,  all  withered  in  wintry  despair ; 
And  Coleman — these  three,  stiff  as  icicles  lie, 
With  a  very  big  Verzenay  drop  in  each  eye. 

And  the  spirits  of  Wolfe  weak  and  sluggishly  flow, 
While  that  resolute  gentleman,  Sammy  Barlow 
(A  jolly  good  fellow — the  harder  his  lot), 
Keeps  eternally  asking  of  Sherman  "Watts  what?" 

Now  gone  all  the  golden  delights  of  their  dream, 
And  vainly  may  bubble  the  Verzenay  stream ; 
For  with  headache  and  nausea,  awakening  in  haste, 
Each  but  finds  in  his  mouth  a  green  coppery  taste. 

•  And  in  vain  to  rekindle  their  hopes  and  their  lives 
Are  political  cocktails  commingled  by  Ives ; 
Though  the  Herald  has  bitters  and  Wolfe  offers  gin, 
Yet  the  feast  was  too  deep  for  their  cure  to  begin. 


Charles  Graham  Halpine.  297 


Oh,  bitter  the  wails  in  all  boudoirs  select 
For  the  mighty  fine  hopes  in  their  enterprise  wrecked  ; 
And  at  Washington  many  the  shrugs  and  ahems 
At  the  brittle  success  of  our  "national  gems." 

For  "national  men"  in  the  true  sense  were  they, 

No  local  affinities  hampered  their  sway  ; 

And  "gems"  were  they  also — sharp,  brilliant,  and  nice, 

Though,  as  Phelps  will  declare,  "not  at  all  beyond  price." 

Now  the  prospects  of  Dix  they  have  all  gone  to  grass, 
And  Ike  Townsend  insists  he  be  written  an  ass ; 
Scoffers  leer  when  they  talk  of  the  mammon  ite  squad, 
And  the  Verzenay  movement  is  stiff  as  a  clod. 

For  control  of  the  movement  its  starters  may  whistle, 
The  Verzenay  nabobs  have  fizzed  their  last  fizzle ; 
Extinguish  the  lights,  fold  their  hands,  close  their  eyes — 
Unregarded  it  lived,  and  uncared  for  it  dies. 


WHO  KILLED  THE  NABOBS? 

Oh,  who  killed  the  nabobs  ? 

"  'Twas  I,"  said  the  Leader ; 

"You  may  count  me  the  pleader   *• 
Whose  words  killed  the  nabobs — " 

And  this,  gentle  reader, 

This  sheet  is  the  Leader. 

Who  first  raised  the  nabobs  ? 
'Twas  Sam,  Wolfe,  and  Cisco, 
All  jolly  and  brisk,  oh ! —        » 

'Twas  they  raised  the  nabobs, 
Who  now  lie  as  solemn 
And  flat. as  this  column.       •• 

To  whom  gave  they  trouble  ? 

"  Oh,  to  me,"  says  the  Herald ; 

' '  My  lungs  I  imperiled 
Inflating  their  bubble ; 

'Twas  a  stiff  operation 

Each  morning's  inflation." 

For  whom  did  they  do  this  ? 

"Oh,  for  Sam,  Wolfe,  and  Cisco, 

All  jolly  and  brisk,  oh ! 
Who  yet  have  to  rue  this, 

And  a  fourth  man,  quiescent, 

Who  by  proxies  was  present." 

N  2 


298  The  Poetical  Works  of 


What  shroud  will  best  suit  them  ? 

"  Oh  pshaw !"  cry  the  masses, 

"  They  are  but  dead  asses ; 
Just  bundle  and  boot  them ; 

Collapsed,  and  in  flat  case, 

They'll  fit  in  a  hat  case. " 

And  their  grave ?    "None  is  needed ; 

Lock  them  up  with  a  sermon 

In  the  safe  of  Watts  Sherman, 
And  leave  them  unheeded ; 

WTe  are  sick  of  the  trouble 

And  fuss  of  this  bubble." 

Now  who'll  toll  the  bell? 

"I'll  do  it,"  said  Baldwin, 

"  If  properly  called  on, 
I'll  toll  it  out  well — 

My  last  act  of  devotion 

To  dead  hopes  of  promotion." 

And  who  for  the  nabobs 

A  headstone  can  carve  us  ? 

"  I'll  do  it,"  said  Jarvis, 
"  Hie  jacet  the  nabobs  ; 

The  stereotyped  model 

Requiescat  in — 'twaddle. " 

Who'll  bury  the  fellows  ? 
"  Oh  I,"  answered  Ives — 
"  I,  the  friend  of  their  lives — 

Their  inflater — their  bellows ; 
Let  me,  late  their  teacher, 
In  death  be  their  preacher. " 

Who'll  give  the  responses  ? 

"  I'll  do  it,"  cries  Leary, 

Brisk,  jovial,  and  cheery, 
"  I'll  give  the  responses ; 

I  am  knee-deep  in  clover 

Since  their  fizzle  is  over." 

Who'll  turn  undertaker  ? 

"  I'll  do  it,"  said  Coleman, 

A  dismal  but  droll  man, 
' '  I'll  play  mute  and  waker ; 

But,  to  keep  the  wake  frisky, 

Give  me  snuff,  pipes,  and  whisky." 


Charles  Graham  Halpine. 


EPITAPH. 

"They  lived — a  world's  wonder 

Of  folly  and  weakness ; 

But,  whipped  into  meekness, 
They  caved  and  went  under. 

Their  Verzenay  bubbled, 

Their  poor  brains  grew  muddled ; 

Their  pamphlet  a  fizzle, 

Their  rallies  a  mizzle ; 

Their  funds  a  delusion, 

Their  plans  all  confusion ; 

No  friends  to  abet  them, 

No  friends  to  regret  them ; 

Neglected  and  scouted, 
»    Pasquinaded  and  flouted ; 

With  golden  pretensions 
4  Of  shrunken  dimensions, 

And  headache  and  sickness — 

Oh,  blame  not  the  quickness 

With  which — just  as  fast  as  Jack  Robinson  whistled— 
The  Verzenay-Vigilant  Fizzlers  have  fizzled." 


THE  RING-STAMP  FATAL. 

Just  stay  where  you  are — you  had  betther  far, 

Than  attimpt  to  breast  the  tornado 
Which  the  Ring  chiefs  know  is  to  lay  them  low, 

Despite  all  their  false  bravado. 
The  storm's  on  the  wing,  an'  aich  craft  o'  the  Ring 

Will  find  it  a  roarer  an'  wrecker ; 
While  to  victhory  sails,  undher  favorin'  gales, 

The  popilar  ship — John  Hecker. 
Just  so  sure  as  you're  born,  "a  receipt  for  the  corn" 

Next  election  the  Ring  will  be  findin', 
And  wid  Hecker's  strong  will  in  conthrol  of  our  mill- 

Faix !  we'll  do  some  almighty  grindin'. 


THE  NIGHT  RIDE  OF  ANCIENT  ABE. 

Not  a  drum  was  heard,  not  a  party  cry — 
We  were  all  most  terribly  flurried, 

As,  with  kindling  horror  in  heart  and  eye, 
Old  Abe  to  the  rail-cars  we  hurried. 


300  The  Poetical  Works  of 

We  hurried  him  quickly,  at  dead  of  night, 
A  disguise  o'er  his  long  limbs  throwing, 

By  the  struggling  moonbeam's  misty  light, 
And  a  bull's-eye  dimly  glowing. 

No  useless  pageant  or  pomp  we  had, 

But  with  Sumner's  cloak  around  him, 
And  canny  Sim  Cameron's  cap  of  plaid, 

To  put  through  in  the  dark  AVC  bound  him. 

Few  and  short  were  the  words  he  said, 

As  we  looked  in  his  face  of  sorrow, 
But  sadly  we  thought  of  the  row  to  be  made 

In  the  Herald  and  Times  of  the  morrow. 

We  thought,  as  we  jostled  him  into  the  car 

^Vithout  either  cheer  or  ovation, 

.  What  a  laugh  there  would  be  when  the  news  spread  afer 
Of  the  Rail-splitter's  ass-ass-ination. 

We  started  the  train,  and  the  hero  was  off. 

Evading  each  Plug-Ugly  sentry ; 
But,  Lord !  how  the  heathen  will  guffaw  and  scoff 

At  this  new  kind  of  "  national  entry." 

Gayly  the  Post  of  the  plot  may  make  light, 
And  talk  of  the  "  Tooley  Street  tailors," 

But,  snugly  installed  in  the  mansion  of  white, 
The  Rail-splitter  laughs  at  all  railers. 


THE  ANCIENT  ABE. 

Air:  "The  Shan  Van  Vocht." 

"Let  us  up  and  do  or  die," 
Says  the  ancient  Abe ; 
"  Let  us  up  and  do  or  die," 

Says  old  Abe ; 

' '  We  will  rear  our  banner  high 
As  the  stars  are  in  the  sky, 
And  our  enemies  shall  fly,"" 
Says  the  ancient  Abe. 

Then  to  Washington  he  flew, 
Did  the  ancient  Abe — 

Then  to  Washington  he  flew, 
Did  old  Abe ; 


Charles  Graham  If  alpine.  301 


And  he  swore  by  black  and  blue 
All  seceders  to  "put  through," 
And  the  forts  to  man  anew, 
Did  the  ancient  Abe. 

Has  he  kept  his  solemn  vow, 

Has  the  ancient  Abe  ? 
Has  he  kept  his  solemn  vow, 

Has  old  Abe? 

By  the  Lord !  we  see  him  bow 
At  the  shadow  of  a  row — 
"Tis  an  ugly  case  of  "cow" 

With  the  ancient  Abe. 

For  without  a  cannon  fired 

By  the  ancient  Abe — 
Not  a  gun  or  cracker  fired 

By  old  Abe- 
He  has  peacefully  retired, 
Granting  all  the  South  desired, 
Sinking  down  as  it  aspired, 

Has  the  ancient  Abe. 

"Major  Anderson's  to  blame," 

Cries  the  ancient  Abe ; 
"  It  is  he  that  is  to  blame," 

Says  old  Abe ; 
And  thus  to  hide  the  shame 
Of  a  heart  that  is  not  "  game," 
He  befouls  that  honored  name, 
Does  the  ancient  Abe. 

Oh,  friends,  we've  had  enough 

Of  this  ancient  Abe — 
Much  more  than  was  enough 

Of  old  Abe; 

He  is  made  of  such  weak  stuff, 
The  South  beats  his  game  of  bluff, 
And  I  fear  they'll  ride  him  rough — 

Ride  the  ancient  Abe. 

Let  us  watch,  and  wait,  and  pray 

For  the  ancient  Abe — 
For  our  country  let  us  pray, 

And  for  Abe ; 
Let  us  help  him  if  we  may, 
When  he  falters  on  the  way, 
Guide  him  back  when  gone  astray — 
Poor  bewildered  Abe. 


302  The  Poetical  Works  of 


For  though  all  the  saddest  fates 

Link  with  ancient  Abe — 
All  the  most  despairing  fates 

Link  with  Abe — 
He  is  captain  in  the  gates 
Of  these  grand  United  States, 
And  must  be  till  time  abates — 

Hapless  ancient  Abe. 

Let  us  therefore,  though  we  squirm 

Under  ancient  Abe — 
Though  we  writhe,  and  groan,  and  squirm 

Under  Abe — 

Let  us  all  stand  true  and  firm, 
Of  his  courage  nurse  the  germ, 
And  in  patience  bear  the  term 

Of  the  ancient  Abe. 


PHILADELPHIA. 

Air:  '•'•The  Hunters  of  Kentucky: 

In  politics  a  fear  intense 

Has  seized  on  friend  and  foe,  sir ; 
The  favorite  seat  is  on  the  fence, 

The  favorite  word,  "  Lie  low,  sir ; 
Our  pea  beneath  the  thimbles  keep, 

Not  telling  where  it  lurks," 
And  the  cry  is, ' '  See  before  you  leap 

How  Philadelphia  works !" 

For  it's  all  a  problem, 


lem 


Prob-prob-probl( 
'Tis  all  a  problem 
How  Philadelphia  works. 

The  Johnson  men  pretend  to  feel 

The  game  is  theirs  alone,  sir, 
While  the  "  Rads"  proclaim  the  winning  deal 

Is  safely  made  their  own,  sir. 
Lord  Greeley's  face  is  full  of  glee, 

While  Raymond  squirms  and  shirks, 
And  the  prudent  ones  cry,  "  Wait  and  see 
How  Philadelphia  works. " 

For  here  is  the  problem, 
Prob-prob-problem — 
A  mixed  and  curious  problem 
How  Philadelphia  works. 


Charles  Graham  Halpine.  303 


The  Blairs,  who  pull  the  wires  and  threads, 

Have  plunged  into  the  business 
With  a  zeal  which  gives  to  cooler  heads 

A  sort  of  swimming  dizziness. 
They  have  seized  the  boat  from  stem  to  stern, 

And  are  fighting  it  like  Turks, 
While  the  older  hands  stand  back  to  learn 
How  Philadelphia  works. 

For  a  ticklish  problem, 
Prob-prob-problem , 
'Twould  be  for  any  one  to  guess 
How  Philadelphia  works. 

Has  Johnson  nerve  to  make  the  fight 

A  fight  to  the  bitter  end,  sir  ? 
Has  he  the  pluck  his  foes  to  smite, 

And  foster  every  friend,  sir  ? 
If  he  have,  his  star  may  yet  arise 

O'er  the  Radical  glooms  and  murks, 
And  a  child  may  tell  with  a  glance  of  the  eyes 
How  Philadelphia  wprks. 

For  this  is  the  true  problem, 
Prob-prob-problem — 
The  kernel  of  the  problem 
How  Philadelphia  works. 

But  if  he  let  the  Copperheads  guide, 

And  keep  Feward  as  chief  in  office, 
And  hold  in  their  seats  of  power  and  pride 

The  fanatic  knaves  who  scoff  us, 
Then  riddled  will  be  his  official  cloak 

With  Radical  knives  and  dirks, 
And  none  need  ask — save  by  way  of  a  joke — 
How  Philadelphia  works. 

For  this  is  the  problem, 
Prob-prob-problem — 
The  body  and  boots  of  the  problem 
How  Philadelphia  works. 


THE  NEW  "SPIKE"  FOR  POLITICAL  GUNS.50 

Air:  "Vittikins  and  his  Dinah." 

When  a  gun  opens  sharp  on  the  Tammany  crew, 
And  they  don't  know,  to  save  them,  what  next  they  shall  do. 
Straight  for  Taylor  (Fort  Gansevoort,  James  B.)  they  will  strike, 
And  they  use  his  big  body  in  place  of  a  "  spike," 

Singing  tooral-li-ooral,  etc. 


304:  The  Poetical  Works  of 


Oh  Taylor,  dear  Taylor,  thou  henchman  of  Weed, 
Assist  us,  thy  partners,  in  this  hour  of  need ; 
To  Raymond  repair,  and  to  Greeley  make  moan, 
And  command  them  to  let  your  co-workers  alone, 

*  Singing  tooral-li-ooral,  etc. 

Make  Greeley  forget  how  you  poisoned  his  cup 
When  Evarts  and  he  for  the  Senate  were  up — 
When  Owen,  Sim  Draper,  and  all  of  your  breed, 
Cut  his  throat  on  the  sly  at  the  bidding  of  Weed, 

Singing  tooral-li-ooral,  etc. . 

There's  a  "Cork-in"  the  Herald — a  cork  that  won't  budge 
For  Anse  of  the  Atlas  or  Nelson  the  judge ; 
With  silver  'tis  fastened  as  tight  as  you  please, 
And  when  drawn,  out  flows  pure  "Aqua  Peter  de  Griese," 
Singing  tooral-li-ooral,  etc. 

To  say  we're  against  you  you  "know  is  all  fudge, 
For  Owen  is  brother  to  Matthew  the  judge ; 
A  Democrat  this — a  Republican  that — 
And  'tis  hard  if,  between  them,  they  can't  catch  the  fat, 
Singing  tooral-li-ooral,  etc. 

There  are  more  city  bonds,  and  the  time  is  not  far, 
When  such  friends  as  are  useful  can  have  them  at  par ; 
You  will  be  our  "dear  Doty,"  and  may  make  a  strike, 
If  the  guns  that  now  vex  us  you  only  can  spike, 

Singing  tooral-li-ooral,  etc. 

1 '  West  Washington  Market"  to  our  aid  you  owe, 
And  Fort  Gansevoort — a  job  not  yet  finished,  you  know  ; 
Still,  Matthew  must  pass  on  that  very  big  claim, 
And  to  let  Matthew  now  be  annoyed  were  a  shame, 

Singing  tooral-li-ooral,  etc. 

So  Taylor,  dear  Taylor,  to  Greeley  repair, 
And  caution  him  sharp  of  his  course  to  take  care ; 
As  for  Raymond — we  know  you  have  stock  in  the  Times, 
You  must  therefore  spike  that,  or  forfeit  the  dimes. 
Singing  tooral-li-ooral,  etc. 


MYSTERIOUS  VERSES  FROM  A  PINK-EYED  BARD. 

The  Dead-Beat  Club  in  silence  had  spent  the  afternoon, 
For  election  day  was  coming — for  some,  alas !  too  soon. 
All  things  appeared  unsettled,  such  numbers  in  the  field, 
And  they  feared,  without  harmony,  they  would  be  forced  to  yield. 


Charles  Graham  Halpine.  305 


Then  up  spake  Richard  Connolly — "I'll  take  him  by  the  hand ; 
We'll  make  some  nice  arrangement,  and  save  this  fated  land. 
'Tis  the  most  distressed  district  that  ever  yet  was  seen, 
And  the  only  way  to  save  it  is  by  wearing  of  the  green." 

Then  Charley  Baker  said  "Agreed ;  this  thing  we  have  to  do  ; 
And  to  fix  the  matter,  Sweeny,  we'll  leave  it  all  to  you. 
Let's  have  a  joint  committee — get  Moloney  to  back  down — ' 
" The  very  thing,"  said  Richard ;  "we  Beats  can  do  him  brown ; 
For  I'll  step  up  to  Moloney,  and  I'll  take  him  by  the  hand, 
And  treat  him  with  such  favors  as  no  mortal  can  withstand ; 
I'll  show  him,  if  we  both  must  run,  defeat  is  plainly  seen, 
And  I'll  do  Moloney  easy  by  a  wearing  of  the  green. "-" 

They  met — that  hopeful  party — at  the  hotel  kept  by  Hank, 

And  while  Dick  and  P.  G.  treated,  their  mutual  rounders  drank ; 

The  committee  were  in  session — Charley  Baker,  from  a  hat, 

Drew  forth  a  little  paper  near  where  Fernando  sat. 

Then  a  smile  came  o'er  Wood's  features — 'he  took  Sweeny  by  the 

hand, 

Saying,  "Dick's  the  Union  candidate — now,  Peter,  will  you  stand? 
But,  although  it's  the  worst  district  that  ever  yet  was  seen, 
I  believe  that  Dick  can  win  it  by  a  wearing  of  the  green." 

The  Dead-Beat  Club  are  jolly  now  each  week-day  afternoon, 

For  election  day  is  over,  and  Dick  is  high-per-coon  ; 

At  Mataran's  they  gather — Charley  Baker  in  the  chair — 

And  they  drink  to  Patrick  Henry,  who  acted  on  the  square. 

There  Dick  Connolly  meets  Moloney,  and  takes  Hughy  by  the  hand, 

Saying  ' '  How  does  Bricks  John  Murphy,  and  how  does  Bradley 

stand? 

Mine  is  the  gayest  district  that  ever  yet  was  seen, 
And  the  only  way  I  won  it  was — a  wearing  of  the  green." 


FANDANGO'S  APOTHEOSIS. 

A  DAM   FEOM   THE  DUTCH   (i.  6.  HEOKEE)   DIKES. 

When  we  use  the  word  "  dam"  in  the  following  song, 

We  mean  such  a  ' '  danv'  as  the  Croton  Dam, 
Or  such  dams  as  the  beaver  builds  along 

The  quiet  shores  of  the  Aquietam ; 
And  it  is  in  this  sense — this  pious  sense — 

We  desire  to  be  clearly  understood — 
When  we  cry,  with  a  fervor  most  intense, 

"Everlastingly  dam  Fandango  Wood." 

20 


306  The  Poetical  Works  of 


His  mustache  is  white,  and  his  wig  is  brown, 

His  heart  is  the  hue  of  a  buried  nigger, 
And,  walking  abroad,  he  delights  the  town 

With  the  grace  of  his  lank  pretentious  figure ; 
And  so  this  time,  boys,  in  the  Croton  sense — 

Not  the  beaver,  be  it  understood — 
We  cry  with  a  zeal  that  is  most  intense, 

"Everlastingly  dam  Fandango  Wood." 

His  mechanical  manners  have  all  the  grace 

Of  a  patent  gallows  or  steam  garroter ; 
His  dollars  and  crimes  run  a  high  old  race, 

Though  each  crime  is  by  odds  the  swiftest  trotter 
And  so  this  time,  boys,  in  the  beaver  sense — 

Not  the  Croton,  be  it  understood — 
We  cry,  with  a  fervor  most  intense, 

"Everlastingly  dam  Fandango  Wood." 

"There  lived  a  man" — so  a  story  said — 

"  Who  was,  in  his  own  bad  olden  time, 
From  head  to  heel,  and.  from  heel  to  head, 

And  in  marrow  and  vitals,  one  living  crime." 
But  away  with  the  sickening  picture  hence ! 

He  is  nothing  like  this,  be  it  understood, 
Whom  we  mean  when  we  cry,  with  a  zeal  intense, 

"Everlastingly  dam  Fandango  Wood." 


SONG  TO  THE  SONS  OF  ST.  TAMMANY. 

Ho!  treaders  of  the  war-path, 

Who  round  these  council-fires 
Now  gather  on  the  battle  eve 

As  gathered  oft  your  sires — 
Ho !  all  whose  hands  have  lifted 

The  banner-spears  of  states, 
And  heard  the  war-dance  circling,  while 

The  foe  was  at  the  gates — 

All  ye  who  stand  with  covered  heads 

Before  the  highest  chief, 
And  ne'er  have  stooped  except  to  help 

A  hapless  brother's  grief — 
All  ye  on  whose  high  foreheads 

(More  than  diadem's  renown) 
The  crimson  cap  of  Liberty 

Hath  rested  as  a  crown — 


Charles  Graham  Halpine.  307 


All  ye  who  unto  Freedom 

Bear  consecrated  lives, 
Up !  and  against  this  golden  lie 

Unsheathe  your  vengeful  knives. 
Up !  and  against  this  wretched  fraud 

Of  proud  and  boastful  wealth, 
Show  that  the  good  old  Jackson  blood 

Still  flows  in  ruddy  health. 

Down  with  the  spawn  of  venal  trade — 

These  squatters,  make  them  start — 
Who  hold  in  breast  a  money-bag 

Where  true  men  hold  a  heart. 
Send  on  your  shouts  to  Washington, 

Where  the  Great  Father  dwells, 
And  let  him  hear  from  fearless  lips 

This  tale  which  manhood  tells. 

We  tell  these  men  who  brag  of  gold 

That,  though  their  gains  were  piled 
Higher  than  highest  pyramid 

On  which  the  sun  hath  smiled, 
There  is  not  one  of  us  would  shake 

Their  leprous  hands  to  win 
The  aggregate  stock-plunder 

Of  their  boast  and  of  their  sin. 


HORACE  GBEELEY  AS  HEROD. 

Seward  has  bit  the  bloody  dust, 

To  cold  oblivion  fated ; 
Ben  Wade  now  sleeps  as  sleep  the  just, 

And  Bates  has  been  abated. 
Above  the  early  grave  of  Banks 

The  old  Bay  State  is  sighing, 
And  Hate  through  philanthropic  ranks 

In  fiery  car  is  flying. 

The  Keystone  over  Cameron's  grave 

Sends  up  a  wailing  clangor ; 
Kentucky  Clay,  the  wild  and  brave, 

Is  dumb  and  white  with  anger ; 
Ohio  Chase  is  cold  and  stiff 

As  pig  on  hook  of  grocer ; 
And  dead  as  any  hippogriflf, 

John  C.,  of  Mariposa. 


308  The  Poetical  Works  of 


They  lie  all  round — the  killed  and  cold 

In  friendly  weeping  watered ; 
The  badly  hurt,  the  dead,  the  sold, 

The  massacred  and  slaughtered ; 
But  still  they  all,  with  latest  breath — 

The  last  light  of  life's  taper — 
Charge  Horace  Greeley  with  their  death, 

And  curse  his  fatal  paper. 

Meantime  in  coat  of  ancient  white, 

And  boots  of  dubious  pattern, 
And  breeches  very  short  and  slight, 

And  necktie  of  the  slattern, 
That  mild  but  philosophic  man 

Bears  all  his  honors  meekly, 
While  thunders  in  the  party-van 

His  myriad-utteranced  weekly. 

He  talks  of  Abe — of  honest  Abe — 

That  chief  of  Western  Vandals— 
And,  just  as  mother  might  her  babe, 

His  candidate  he  dandles. 
That  sucking  statesman  must  be  fed 

On  pap  that  he  has  tasted, 
And  not  a  thought  in  Abe's  old  head 

On  other  men  be  wasted. 

But  still  New  York  for  Seward  weeps, 

And  never  seems  to  weary, 
And  one  loud  cry  of  anger  sweeps 

From  Montauk  Point  to  Erie. 
"A  bolt !  a  bolt !  no  Western  craft 

Shall  steal  our  Seward's  thunder ; 
Better  to  build  another  craft, 

And  let  the  ship  go  under. " 

In  fact,  our  philanthropic  friends 

Are  in  a  peck  of  trouble, 
And,  ere  recrimination  ends, 

Clean  burst  will  be  their  bubble. 
Split  into  factions,  soon  will  blaze       • 

The  flames  that  now  are  lambent — 
Young  Sam  again  his  head  will  raise, 

And  Gerrit  Smith  grow  rampant. 

But  Horace  smiles  a  placid  smile — 

Serene,  sublime,  victorious ; 
No  shouts  of  wrath  can  stir  his  bile — 

Revenge — revenge  is  glorious. 


Charles  Graham,  Halpine. 


309 


The  man  whose  friendship  Seward  banned, 

Long  service  ill  requiting, 
Has  got  at  length  the  upper  hand 

By  steady,  ceaseless  fighting. 

Long  life  to  all  our  gallant  sons 

Who  fight  to  hold  their  own, 
And  fame  to  him  who,  slighted  once, 

His  power  at  length  hath  shown — 
Who  stays  at  watch  through  weary  years, 

Giving  no  cry  or  frown, 
Then  sudden  on  the  stage  appears, 

And  strikes  his  wronger  down. 

May  Horace  Greeley's  fame  expand — 

The  way  his  wrongs  were  righted — 
And  may  the  moral  sweep  our  land, 

In  every  home  recited, 
Until  the  old  white  hat  and  coat 

Become  in  song  and  story 
Themes  ringing  in  the  minstrel's  throat — 

Parts  of  a  hero's  glory. 


THE  BALLAD  OF  LORD  LOVELL. 

A  NEW   EDITION,  AS  SUNG  BY  THE  CLERKS  IN  THE   STREET   DEPARTMENT. 

Manse  Lovell  jumped  into  an  avenue  car, 
With  his  seven-shooting  pistol  jumped  he — 

"  Now  I'm  off,"  he  exclaimed,  "  to  take  part  in  the  war, 
And  I'll  fight  on.  the  side  of  Dix-ee, 

Ee-ee, 
And  I'll  fight  on  the  side  of  Dix-ee. " 

.  "  Oh,  where  are  you  gwine,"  John  A.  Kennedy  said, 

"  Oh,  where  are  you  gwine,"  said  he ; 
"For  you  know  you  late  swore  by  your  honor  and  head 
To  have  nothing  to  do  with  Dix-ee, 

Ee-ee, 
But  to  live  in  New  York  peaceablee." 

**  My  parole  I  don't  vally,"  Manse  Lovell  replied, 

"  Not  a  cuss — not  a  rush,"  said  he ; 
"But  as  soon  as  I'm  down  on  the  Southering  side, 

You  shall  see,  sir,  what  then  you  shall  see, 


You  shall  hear,  sir,  and  often,  from  me. 


310  The  Poetical  Works  of 


"  My  salary's  drawn  to  the  very  last  day — 

I've  spoiled  the  Egyptians,"  sez  he; 
"And  now  I  make  off  with  my  plunder  and  pay 

To  enlist  on  the  side  of  Jeff  D., 

Dee-dee, 

And  before  me  '  Abe's  minions'  shall  flee. " 

From  the  bold  Street  Department  there  rises  a  wail — 

All  the  clerks  there  are  sad  as  can  be ; 
And  they  ask,  "  Do  you  think  Captain  Smith  too  will  fail 

To  return  from  his  home  in  Dix-ee, 

Ee-ee, 

To  return  from  his  home  in  Dix-ee." 

Gus  Purdy,  and  Ryer,  and  O'Brien  have  "  the  blues," 

Johnny  Richardson's  sad  as  can  be  ; 
But  old  Jonathan  Trotter  says,  "  Bully  good  news ; 

God  prosper  the  cause  of  Dix-ee, 

Ee-ee, 

And  send  to  the  South  victoree." 

Fernando  looks  on  with  a  muscular  grin, 

And  the  aldermen  smile  full  of  glee ; 
For  they  see  a  good  chance  to  get  Shepherd  Knapp  in, 

If  Gus  Smith  stays  away  in  Dix-ee, 

Ee-ee, 

If  Gus  Smith  don't  return  from  Dix-ee. 


MY  SAMBO  OF  THE  KOM-HERAUS. 51 

Give  me  your  hand,  my  Sambo, 
Come  to  my  heart,  my  Sambo, 
Friend  of  my  soul,  my  Sambo, 

Great  chief  of  the  Nix-kom-heraus. 
Long  are  your  heels,  my  Sambo, 
Crisp  is  your  wool,  my  Sambo, 
Fragrant  and  rich  is  your  odor, 

Oh  chief  of  the  Nix-kom-heraus. 

Trust  not  Fred  Douglass,  my  Sambo, 
Trust  not  to  Greeley,  my  Sambo, 
Trust  not  Ward  Beecher  or  Tilton, 

Great  chief  of  the  Nix-kom-heraus ; 
But  trust  your  own  Raymond,  my  Sambo, 
Who'll  never  desert  you,  my  Sambo, 
While  you're  good  for  a  vote  or  a  dollar, 

Oh  chief  of  the  Nix-kom-heraus. 


Charles  Graham  Halpine.  311 


You  shall  marry  us  white  folk,  my  Sambo, 

We'll  marry  you  black  folk,  my  Sambo, 

You  shall  eat  with  us,  vote  with  us,  sleep  with  us, 

Great  chief  of  the  Nix-kom-heraus  ; 
And  the  whites  of  the  South,  my  Sambo, 
Shall  have  nary  a  right,  my  Sambo, 
Which  a  Nig  shall  be  bound  to  respect,  if 

Not  pleasing  the  Nix-kom-heraus. 


SAMBO  A  BAD  EGG. 

You're  a  bad  investment,  my  Sambo, 
You're  nice,  but  don't  pay,  my  Sambo, 
And  so  you  may  go  to  the — hot  place 

Befitting  each  Nix-kom-heraus. 
Your  skin  is  nigrific,  my  Sambo, 
And  your  heels  they  are  long,  my  Sambo, 
And  your  wool  has  a  horrible  odor, 

And  your  shin-bones  are  Nix-kom-heraus. 

Get  back  to  your  kennel,  my  Sambo, 

There  grovel  and  rot,  my  Sambo, 

Take  otF  your  blue  coat  and  equipments, 

For  the  war  was  all  Nix-kom-heraus. 
You  had  nothing  to  fight  for,  my  Sambo, 
And  you  gallantly  won  it,  my  Sambo, 
With  your  blood  and  your  labors  you  won  it — 

Enjoy  now  your  Nix-kom-heraus. 

You  may  work  ffor  us  white  folk,  my  Sambo, 
Black  boots  and  shake  carpets,  my  Sambo, 
Steal  chickens  and  do  some  whitewashing 

When  our  kitchens  are  Nix-kom-heraus ; 
But  you  can  not  vote  with  us,  my  Sambo, 
You  had  nothing  to  fight  for,  my  Sambo, 
In  the  war,  and  you  gallantly  won  it — 

Hip !  hip !  for  the  Nix-kom-heraus. 


THE  BOARD  OF  CONTROL  PROGRAMME.52 

Abolish  the  mayor;  and  abolish  the  Boards 
Of  Aldermen,  Councilmen,  Supervisors ;    . 

For  our  city  and  county  have  tempting  hoards, 
And  Albany's  teeth  'are  sharp  incisors. 


312  The  Poetical  Works  of 


Abolish  all  powers  that  are  not  of  our  Church  ; 

There  are  no  honest  men  that  are  not  in  our  party ; 
And  both  Weed  and  the  Wigwam  we'll  leave  in  the  lurch, 

"Played" out" just  as  clean  as  a  hand  at  ecarte. 

This,  now,  is  the  programme  devised  by  the  saints 
Who  fight  under  Waldo's  immaculate  banner ; 

And  if  true  be  the  picture  that  great  artist  paints, 
The  millennium  will  come  in  this  very  brief  manner. 

For  the  Board  of  Control  will  have  plenary  power 

To  make  good  honest  men  of  all  rogues  in  our  borders, 

And  all  vices  and  crimes  will  expire  the  same  hour 
That  our  city  is  placed  under  Albany  orders. 

For  of  all  pious  towns — not  excepting  Sing  Sing — 
We  all  know  that  Albany's  far  the  most  pious, 

And  that  "lobby  corruption"  or  "  schemes  of  the  Ring" 
Must  vamose  right  away  when  Saint  Fenton  is  by  us. 

So  hip,  hip,  and  hurra  for  the  Board  of  Control ! 

The  earth  is  the  Lord's  and  its  fruits  for  his  people ; 
We  shall  purify  Gotham  with  Albany's  soul, 

And  whoever  objects — let  him  swing  from  the  steeple. 

To  Saint  Waldo  we  bend — to  King  Greeley  we  bow, 
Who  to  absolute  rule  in  this  bill  will  have  risen ; 

For  their  Board  of  Control  is — I  solemnly  swow — 
The  biggest  darned  thing  ever  seen  out  of  prison. 

That  we  need  great  reforms  in  our  corporate  life, 
These  columns  of  ours  have  been  faithful  recorders ; 

But  this  wholesale  hack-slashing  with  Albany's  knife 
Is  just  killing  the  patient  to  cure  his  disorders. 


LYRICS  OF  ALBANY.53 

LEPROSY   8OMEWHEEE — WHERE  IS  IT? 

Unhappiest  of  all  mortal  men, 

We  pity  Glenn,  we  pity  Glenn, 
For  fast  he  lies  in  the  lion's  den, 
With  a  hundred  and  thirty  injured  men 

All  crying  aloud  for  the  blood  of  Glenn. 

•The  courage  of  a  thousand  men 

Shone  bright  in  Glenn,  shone  bright  in  Glenn, 
When,  bearding  the  animals  in  their  den, 
He  first  with  tongue,  and  then  with  pen, 

Gave  out  his  indictment,  and  signed  it  Glenn. 


Charles  Graham  If  alpine.  313 


But,  alas !  a  derision  to  gods  and  men 

Hath  grown  poor  Glenn — our  piteous  Glenn ! 

He  is  shunned  as  are  Eastern  lepers  when 

Their  leprosy  is  thick  ;  and  then 

How  they  worry  and  madden  the  soul  of  Glenn  ! 

But  this  point  is  strange,  and  a  thing  for  men 

To  ponder  about  in  regard  to  Glenn ; 
For  he  swears  "  'tis  seven  score  of  leprous  men 
Who  are  driving  out  one  untainted,  when 
Our  Albany  fathers  shall  banish  Glenn." 

Now  who  are  the  lepers  ?  the  beasts  in  their  den, 
Or  only  poor  Glenn— or  only  Glenn  ? 

Have  we  found  seven  score  of  leprous  men  ? 

Or  is  there  but  one,  to  whose  tainted  ken 

All  others  appear  as  diseased  as  Glenn  ? 
Dclavan  House,  Albany,  April  9, 1868. 


CORPORATION  COUNSEL  CHARGERS  (THEY  CHARGE 
HIGH)  ON  THEIR  METTLE. 

"  Next  heat !"  the  circus-master  cried ; 

The  Mayoralty-men  rode  out ; 
While  trooping  from  the  other  side 

Dashed  in  a  second  rout. 
"The  Coloration  Counselship, 

What  knight  the  prize  can  win  ?" 
And  eagerly,  with  trip  and  slip, 

The  candidates  rode  in. 

Came  "  Glorious  Dick"  most  glorious, 

Exalted,  true,  and  wise ; 
And  Tom  C.  Fields  uproarious 

To  win  and  wear  the  prize. 
Elijah  Ward  on  tiptoe  stood, 

And  seemed  his  way  to  grope, 
While  George  G.  Barnard's  marriage  mood 

Was  full  of  joy  and  hope. 

Came  Bainbridge  Smith,  who  means  to  hatch 

This  egg  beneath  his  wing ; 
Came  Sam  J.  Tilden,  sure  to  catch 

Whate'er  the  fates  may  fling. 


314  The  Poetical  Works  of 


Came  Malcolm  Campbell,  hot  in  view 

Of  all  the  chances  round  ; 
And  ex-Recorder  Frank  Tillou, 

On  ' '  high"  achievements  bound. 

Came  Tomlinson  of  lofty  claims, 

A  bright  and  shining  ember ; 
And  So-and-so  Morange — whose  names 

We  really  can't  remember. 
Came  Greene  C.  Bronson,  he  whose  son 

Augustus  Schell  hath  spared ; 
And  John  E.  Develin,  on  a  roan, 

Which  kicked,  and  pranced,  and  reared. 

Their  riding  was  not  of  the  best, 

Their  horses  were  not  Arabs, 
And  all,  with  lances  couched  in  rest, 

Looked  fierce  and  wild  as  Caribs. 
They  seemed  a  grim  and  ghastly  crew, 

Each  pledged  to  be  victorious, 
While  all  kept  steadily  in  view 

The  dripping  scalp  of  "  Glorious." 

So  with  clatter,  dust,  and  jingle, 

O'er  the  sawdust  and  the  tan, 
Mounted  double,  riding  single, 

Went  this  legal  caravan, 
In  cotton  tights  and  spangles, 

Much  like  scarecrows  on  the  wing, 
And  with  bells  around  their  ankles 

Which  Tom  Carroll  strove  to  ring. 


MAYORALTY  NAGS  AND  RIDERS. 

With  a  jingle,  jingle,  jingle, 

O'er  the  sawdust  and  the  tan, 
Mounted  double,  riding  single, 

Comes  the  Wigwam  caravan — 
In  cotton  tights  and  spangles, 

Their  buskins  duly  chalked, 
And  with  bells  around  their  ankles, 

In  they  cantered,  rode,  and  walked. 

"Prize  one,"  which  Pantaloon  brought  forth, 

Was  labeled  "  City  Mayor"— 
A  gaudy  thing  of  little  worth — 

A  gilded  pewter  chair ; 


Charles  Graham  Hal/pine.  315 


The  cushion  stuffed  with  nettles, 
The  back  all  rough  with  spikes  — 

"  Now,  horsemen,  to  your  mettles  !" 
Out  cantered  the  three  Ikes. 

Ike  Fowler,  brown  and  burly, 

On  a  stallion  trotted  out  ; 
Isaac  Townsend,  grim  and  surly, 

In  a  sudden  fit  of  gout  ; 
Ike  Bell,  who  best  of  all  succeeds 

In  coloring  meerschaum  clay  — 
All  these  dashed  out  on  bitted  steeds, 

Impatient  for  the  fray. 

Came  Father  Kennedy  along, 

His  scalping-knife  was  keen  ; 
Came  John  li.  Briggs,  serene  and  strong, 

With  brave  and  courtly  mien. 
Came  John  Kerr,  Avith  a  bottle 

Of  good  ale  beneath  his  arm  ; 
And  Whitlock  (Ben),  whose  throttle 

From  good  ale  ne'er  suffered  harm. 

Came  Wilson  Hunt,  reformer  fine  ; 

Came  Tiemann  —  room  for  Dan  ; 
And  Father  David  Valentine 

Kept  pricking  to  the  van. 
Came  true  and  tried  Judge  Ingraham, 

Our  bench's  pride  and  boast  ; 
Came  Gunther,  happy  as  a  clam  — 

By  Teutons  talked  of  most. 

Came  Royal  Phelps,  with  royal  "cheek;*' 

James  Lee,  true,  frank,  and  plain  ; 
Came  Charley  Secor,  who  may  seek 

Dan  Tiemann's  place  in  vain  ; 
Came  Havemeyer,  who  has  mire  enough 

For  any  city  pickle  ; 
And,  last  of  all,  broad,  red,  and  bluff, 

Our  old  friend,  Andie  Mickle. 


with  jingle,  jingle,  jingle, 

O'er  the  sawdust  and  the  tan, 
Mounted  double,  riding  single, 

Passed  the  Mayoralty  caravan, 
In  cotton  tights  and  spangles, 

Their  buskins  duly  chalked, 
And  with  bells  around  their  ankles, 

Which  kept  tinkling  as  they  walked. 


316  The  Poetical  Works  of 


And  after  James  Mahoney 

Gallops  William  A.  Turnure 
On  a  stout  New-England  pony — 

Not  so  fast,  but  very  sure. 
Patrick  Henry  follows  after, 

With  a  name  to  win  applause ; 
While  Tom  B.  Tappan's  laughter 

Argues  gayly  for  his  cause. 

Ed  Donnelly,  since  he  failed  to  moor 

His  fortune  at  Sing  Sing, 
Thinks  governing  our  city  poor 

Would  be  the  next  best  thing. 
Dan  Norris  grows  defiant 

In  the  safeness  of  his  schemes ; 
While  Martin  Luther  Bryant 

Is  called  "  Governor"  in  his  dreams. 

But  of  all  the  straw  and  real  men, 

Including  Simeon  Meyer, 
Who  fiercely  to  be  one  of  Ten 

Doth  labor  and  aspire — 
Overlooking  all  preceding  names, 

Commend  us  at  a  pinch 
To  our  own  beloved,  immortal  James — 

The  namesake  of  Judge  Lynch. 

So  with  Democratic  jingle, 

O'er  the  plowed  and  beaten  tan, 
Mounted  double,  riding  single, 

Sweeps  the  Almshouse  caravan  ; 
Through  hoops  of  colored  paper 

Each  one  jumps  on  riding  out,     . 
.And  at  each  more  lofty  caper 

The  applauding  audience  shout. 


A  SQUADRON  OF  MOUNTED  SAILORS— THE  MARINE 
COURT. 

"  Now  clear  the  ring  for  other  bouts" — 

The  ostlers  change  the  scenes ; 
And,  heralded  with  laughing  shouts, 

Ride  in  the  horse  marines. 
"  Marine  Court  Judgeship" — come  and  see 

The  Inguns  who  pursue 
Poor  Albert  Thompson  ("with  a/>"), 

And  seek  to  put  him  through. 


Charles  Graham  Halpine.  317 


Here's  Wally  Cone,  with  Frenchy  phiz 

And  long  Zouave  mustache  ; 
The  Sunday  Times  his  charger  is — 

He  makes  it  feel  the  lash. 
Comes  Winthrop  Chanler  dashing  through, 

A  good  and  gallant  claimant, 
And  Mr.  li.  C.  Downing,  who 

Believes  in  "prompt  cash  payment." 

Comes  Bob  E.  Livingston,  half  dead 

With  keeping  up  a  canter ; 
Comes  Charley  Shea,  whose  pleasant  head 

Is  full  of  joke  and  banter. 
John  Anderson — no  cousin  he 

To  "  Solace  John,  my  joe ;" 
And  old  Dan  Clarke,  whose  policy 

Is  still  to  rail  and  blow. 

Comes  Richard  Winne,  who  would  win 

If  worth  were  most  regarded, 
And  poor  Tom  Pearson,  who  appears 

Among  the  long  discarded. 
On  comes  M'Gregor — Johnny  D. — 

Astride  a  brace  of  ponies, 
And  Art  Delaney  mounted  on 

Two  asses — his  dear  cronies. 

Cardoza  dozes  on  his  mule, 

Dick  Clark  grows  thiii  and  paler, 
While  nine  parts  of  a  decent  hope 

Are  left  for  Dan  B.Taylor. 
'Tis  a  sight  to  make  outsiders 

Split  their  sides  with  fun  and  spleen, 
For  ne'er  were  seen  such  riders 

As  this  troop  of  horse  marines. 

So  round  the  column  passes 

O'er  the  sawdust  and  the  tan, 
On  their  piebalds  and  their  asses, 

Each  one  striving  for  the  van  ; 
On  their  mules,  giraffes,  and  geldings, 

Trot  and  prance  these  riders  bold, 
And  their  spangles,  tights,  and  beltings 

Are  most  "gorgeous  to  behold." 


318  The  Poetical  Works  of 


MAGNIFICENT  SUPREME  COURT  EVOLUTIONS. 

A  louder  bell  hath  tinkled, 

These  horsemen  stand  aloof, 
While  the  ring  is  raked  and  sprinkled 

To  record  anew  each  hoof. 
"Supreme  Court  Judgeship"  is  the  cry, 

And,  cantering  from  the  stable, 
On  four  black  chargers,  stepping  high,1 

Come  athletes  proud  and  able. 

Judge  Roosevelt  leads  the  squadron — 

From  the  fight  he  does  not  flinch  ; 
He  never  made  a  bad  run, 

And  is  "game"  in  every  inch. 
John  E.  Burrill  rides  behind  him, 

With  his  tomahawk  on  edge, 
But  Leonard's  lance  will  find  him — 

William  H.  hath  made  the  pledge. 

Ambrose  Pinney  is  the  fourth  man 

Of  this  more  than  common  group ; 
But  Roosevelt,  riding  in  the  van, 

May  distance  yet  the  troop. 
He  has  bottom  and  good  breeding, 

But  if  fall  and  fade  he  must, 
The  blow  that  lays  him  bleeding 

Will  be  Leonard's  knightly  thrust. 

Tinkle,  tinkle,  jingle,  jingle, 

O'er  the  sawdust  and  the  tan, 
With  no  common  herd  to  mingle 

Deign  this  su-preme  caravan. 
They  somersault  and  straddle, 

Pirouette,  and  leap,  and  fling, 
Then,  with  one  foot  on  the  saddle, 

Each  man  bows  and  quits  the  ring. 


BILL  OF  ANOTHER  WEEK'S  EXHIBITION. 

Thus  the  entertainment  closes 

For  at  least  the  present  week ; 
Let  the  candidates  count  noses, 

And  survey  extents  of  cheek. 


Charles  Graham  Halpine.  319 


Immediately  or  sooner, 

When  .convenience  prompts  the  same, 
Our  lyrical  harpooner 


lyrical  narp< 
fill  go  round 


Will  go  round  for  other  game. 

For  senators,  assembly-men, 

And  other  such  small  deer, 
For  all  the  tribe  who  now  and  then 
.  Turn  up  to  tempt  his  spear — 
For  the  big  fish  and  the  little  fish, 
The  minnows  and  the  whales — 
The  fish  with  very  scaly  sides, 
And  the  fish  with  golden  tails  ; 

For  horny  beasts,  which  much  abound, 

For  birds  of  changing  wing, 
Each  tenant  of  our  hunting-ground, 

Each  quaffer  of  the  spring ; 
For  squatter  game  (to  make  it  pack 

Immediately  or  sooner) 
We  mean  to  send  upon  the  track 

Our  lyrical  harpooner. 


CATTLE  OF  THE  BOAKD  OF  SUPERVISORS— GRAND 
FANCY  DANCE  AND  MASQUE. 

Clear  the  ring  for  Supervisors  ! 

The  candidates  are  few, 
And  hoard  their  hopes  as  misers 

Hoard  their  gains  from  common  view. 
They  are  masked  and  thickly  painted, 

Quaintly  dressed  in  odd  attire, 
But  with  some  we  are  acquainted, 

And  the  rest — we  may  inquire. 

Him  with  cloak  of  purple  border, 

James  B.  Nicholson,  we  guess ; 
Douglas  Taylor,  next  in  order, 

Wears  the  sachem's  Indian  dress  ; 
Bob  H.  Ellis  is  no  slattern 

In  the  tights  which  fit  him  well ; 
And  that  dress  of  Chinese  pattern 

Must  hide  Charley  G.  Cornell. 

By  the  Lord !  there  goes  Tom  Adams 
On  his  milk-white  steed ;  he's  some  ; 

Pay  attention,  girls  and  madams, 
Boys  and  men,  pay  heed  to  Tom. 


320  The  Poetical  Works  of 


Not  a  bolder  rider  prances 
In  the  Democratic  ring ; 

Not  a  truer  man  advances 

For  the  bouquets  which  ye  fling. 


MUSTERING  OF  THE  CLANS. 

I. 

Call  out  the  city  regiments,  every  chieftain  and  his  clan ; 
Place  the  sinewy  First  Warders,  with  Pat  Curry  in  the  van  ; 
Let  Miner  lead  the  Sappers  of  the  Second's  bold  brigade, 
While  M'Carthy's  ensign  o'er  the  Third  Artillery  is  displayed; 
The  Fourth  will  come  with  fife  and  drum,  the  veteran  Purser  leading, 
All  feuds  forgot,  and  but  one  thought — the  duty  of  succeeding. 

II. 

The  Fifth  Zouaves,  with  Savage,  come  with  eager  spring  and  bound, 

Swart  veterans  of  many  fights,  and  ever  faithful  found  ; 

The  Sixth  has  archers  grim  and  stanch,  and  numerous  as  the  sea — 

Democracy's  knight-errants,  never  known  to  halt  or  flee ; 

The  Seventh  is  bold,  and  well  may  hold  its  place  among  the  best, 

When  the  gallant  Rynders  couches  his  deadly  lance  in  rest. 

III. 

Comes  on  the  Eighth,  an  Indian  tribe,  with  Delavan  commanding ; 

Biggest  of  all  big  Indians,  his  martial  breast  expanding ; 

And  marches  steadily  the  Ninth,  a  battery  masked  and  mortal, 

With  Kennedy  to  open  fire  on  every  hostile  portal. 

With  stirring  tunes  the  Tenth  Dragoons,  led  by  the  WTar  Horse,  enter; 

The  Eleventh  appears — its  grenadiers,  with  Kelly,  form  the  centre. 

IV. 

And  next  to  these,  with  bugle-blow  and  cymbals  pealing  glorious, 
Led  on  by  Vance,  the  Twelfth  advance,  resistless  and  victorious  ; 
The  Thirteenth  Voltigeurs  file  in  with  Mitchell,  prompt  for  action, 
Resolved  to  conquer  open  foes,  and  quell  each  private  faction. 
A  roar  of  drums — the  Fourteenth  comes,  a  sea  of  plumes  and  sabres : 
Fill  high  and  toast  this  noble  host ;  with  them  John  Kelly  labors. 

V. 

With  flashing  helmets,  golden  belts,  and  swords  of  glittering  lustre, 
The  Chasseurs  of  the  gay  Fifteenth  around  Ike  Fowler  cluster. 
Hart  leads  the  Sixteenth  Riflemen,  most  dangerous  under  cover ; 
In  all  bush-fighting  skirmishes  these  braves  are  bound  to  suffer. 
With  ringing  spurs,  and  shout  which  stirs  our  blood,  the  Seventeenth 

rallies ; 
Now  Chanler  leads,  now  Smith  succeeds  as  champion  of  its  sallies. 


Charles  Graham  Halpine.  321 


VI. 

Room  for  the  Eighteenth  chivalry !     Ed  Cooper  rides  along, 
While  fierce  and  fast  as  winter  waves  his  men  behind  him  throng. 
Koom  for  the  Nineteenth  Legion,  with  Herrick  at  its  head, 
Four  lieutenant  colonels  fighting  to  be  colonels  in  his  stead. 
The  Twentieth  Ward  in  sweet  accord  lifts  up  its  oriflamme, 
With  Nelson  J. ,  the  lion-lord,  and  Peter  B. ,  the  lamb. 

VII. 

The  Twenty-first  is  never  cursed  with  envy's  base  appeal ; 
There  Froment  leads  his  infantry — a  wall  of  fire  and  steel. 
The  Twenty-second,  a  border  Ward,  to  border  feuds  a  prey, 
Hath  draped  its  flags  in  mourning  for  the  young  man  passed  away ; 
iiound  William  Henry's  early  tomb  each  weeping  chieftain  stands — 
The  judge,  Ward,  Nick,  and  Pete,  and  Helk  across  his  grave  strike 
hands. 

VIII. 

Then,  brothers,  rally  round  the  flag,  the  old-time  faith  renew ; 
March  all,  and  march  together,  soldiers  tried  and  ever  true ; 
Fall  in  and  take  your  places,  call  the  roll  and  let  us  hear 
Who  are  for  us,  who  against  us,  in  the  strife  that  draws  anear. 
Our  ship  of  state  will  ride  elate,  in  Union's  harbor  anchored, 
And  future  days  will  live  to  praise  the  peace  New  York  hath  con 
quered. 

HOFFMAN,  DEAR, 

Musha,  Hoffman,  dear,  the  thing  looks  queer — 

The  machine  doesn't  run  to  ordher ; 
An',  despite  the  Ring's  views,  we're  not  willin'  to  lose 

Your  sarvices  as  Recordher. 
'Tis  a  bully  ould  place,  which  we  think  you  grace, 

Arrayed  in  the  judge's  armine  ; 
An'  'twould  make  us  despair  if  we  saw  you  med  mayor 

As  the  tool  of  the  Lobby-Ring  varmin. 
An'  so.  John  T.,  we'll  let  you  be, 

Till  your  terrum  expires,  the  Recordher ; 
An'  when  played  is  that  game,  we'll  examine  your  claim 

To  another  "posish"in  its  ordher. 


BIG  THING  HOFF.  HAS  HAD. 

Thirty  thousand  a  year  you've  been  makin'  clear 
For  more  years  than  we  care  to  reckon ; 

An'  to  warn  you  back  from  the  mayoralty  thrack, 
All  the  fingers  o'  friendship  beckon, 

21  '      O  2 


322  The  Poetical  Works  of 

"  Don't  go  into  it,  Hoff,  or  your  head  goes  off — 

Don't  be  fooled  by  the  Ring  to  do  it," 
Is  the  cry  o'  your  friends,  wid  no  selfish  ends, 

"  Or  but  once,  an'  for  life  you'll  rue  it. 
An'  should  you,  Hoff,  at  this'warnin'  scoff. 

Never  blame  the  thrue  men  who  have  killed  you, 
For  you'll  soon  be  found  to  a  powdher  ground, 

Just  as  fine  as  if  Hecker  had  milled  you." 


CAN  ANY  ONE  FIND  US  A  SPEAKER? 

BY  OUB  CITY  POICK. 

Say,  have  we  a  Bourbon  among  us  ? 

Who  struck  Billy  Patterson — say  ? 
These  queries,  which  formerly  stung  us, 

Are  passing  like  moonshine  away. 
'Tis  now — and  our  hope  becomes  weaker 

From  hearing  it  evening  and  morn — 
Can  any  one  find  us  a  Speaker  ? 

And  where  was  "  the  tailor's  son"  born? 

God  knows  that  of  talk  they  have  plenty, 

But  never  a  Speaker  is  there; 
At  Washington,  candidates  twenty 

Tuck  up  their  coat-tails  for  "  the  chair." 
There  is  Banks,  full  of  beans  and  benignity, 

But  another  is  Fuller,  we  feel ; 
While  Richardson  stands  on  his  dignity, 

And  Wheeler  keeps  watching  the  wheel. 

At  Albany  things  are  no  better — 

"Young  Sam" holds  his  own  at  the  game, 
Though  Prince  John  h#s  indited  a  letter 

To  prove  Hard  and  Soft  are — the  same. 
A  dozen,  like  Barkis,  "  are  willin'  " 

To  take  the  responsible  toil, 
While  Seward  and  his  "little  villain" 

With  sharp  sticks  are  after  the  spoil. 

By  just  such  another  queer  caper 

The  Almshouse  directors  are  floored — 
There  is  Oliver,  Smith,  and  Sim  Draper, 

Who  wish  to  "preside"  at  the  Board. 
Let  us  deputize  Branch  as  a  seeker, 

Let  him  mount  on  his  crocodile  steed, 
And  search  through  the  world  for  a  Speaker 

To  help  us  along  in  our  need. 


Charles  Graham  Halpine.  323 


Yes,  Branch  is  the  hope  that  we  stand  on, 

Tis  he  that  has  proved  of ' '  our  chief" 
That  the  brand  on  his  cradle  was  Brandon, 

Despite  his  good  "mother's  belief." 
If  Branch  will  not  act  as  our  seeker — 

If  he  will  not  answer  our  prayer — 
We  may  give  up  all  hope  of  a  Speaker, 

And — write  a  complaint  to  the  mayor. 

The  mayor — who,  of  course,  feels  his  bosses 

(They  kill  about  thirty  a  day, 
Which  accounts  for  the  cheapness  of  sausage)— - 

Complains  of  the  stones  of  Broadway. 
Bjjt  all  questions  grow  fainter  and  weakei, 

And  the  public  ignore  them  with  scorn, 
While  they  ask,  Can  you  find  us  a  Speaker  ? 

And  where  was  the  tailor's  son  born  ? 

Is  there  no  spirit-rapper  can  tell  us 

Where  "  speakers"  are  now  to  be  found? 
A  curse  on  the  chance  that  misfell  us, 

For  "  speakers"  used  once  to  abound. 
Let  us  pick  out  a  sensible  "  talker," 

For  business  is  pressing  us  hard, 
And  the  Central  American  Walker 

Has  played  Parker  French  his  trump  card. 

Of  England — whose  envoys  have  tramped  on 

Our  rights  as  a  neutral — we  ask 
That  her  crimp-sergeants  Mathew  and  Crampton 

Be  quickly  recalled  from  their  task. 
And  Denmark — we'll  soon  make  her  meeker — 

Her  claim  for  "  Sound  Dues"  is  unsound : 
If  you  only  will  find  us  a  Speaker, 

By  the  Lord !  we  can  whip  them  all  round. 

Branch  swears  on  his  family  Bible 

That  "the  chief"  is  a  Cockney  and  bore ; 
Poor  Briggs  is  arrested  for  libel, 

And  horses  are  killed  by  the  score ; 
Nicaragua  Walker  (related 

To  "  Hookey")  calls  on  us  in  vain, 
And,  though  England  is  loudly  berated, 

Her  criminal  envoys  remain.    • 

Oh  give  us,  we  beg  you,  a  Speaker, 

Our  bliss  then  would  reach  the  sublime ; 

We  will  bumper  him  round  in  a  beaker, 
And  wish  him  a  jolly  good  time. 


324  The  Poetical  Works  of 


"A  Speaker  at  Washington  needed" — 
Advertise,  for  that  is  the  mode  ; 

Oh  say,  shall  our  prayer  be  unheeded — 
Old  hoss,  "will  saltpetre  explode?" 


PSALMS  OF  IMPEACHMENT. 

CANTICLE  II. — ACCOEDING  TO  THE  PROPHET   MILES, 

Air:  "Jeannette  and  Jeannot." 
"Put  it  through  at  railroad  speed,"  ( 

Bottled  Butler  fiercely  cries ; 
"  For  unless  we  haste,  I  fear  indeed 

Our  farce  of  trial  dies. 
Bring  the  ropes  and  tie  him  tight, 
Bind  his  feet  and  gag  his  mouth, 
Or  we  else  may  lose  our  sovereign  right 
To  rob  and  rule  the  South — 
May  lose  our  job 
To  rule  and  rob, 
Chain,  whip,  and  starve  the  South. 

"Seize  the  country  by  the  throat, 

Force  the  black  dose  through  its  lips, 
For,  unless  we  cast  the  negro  vote, 

Away  our  sceptre  slips. 
Every  bridge  behind  is  gone, 

No  retreat  for  us  remains ; 
We  must  either  perish  one  by  one, 

Or  bind  the  land  in  chains ; 
A  desperate  band, 
Forlorn  we  stand, 

And  no  retreat  remains. 

"As  to  Johnson,  who  hath  been 

An  "  obstruction"  in  our  path. 
Let  him  taste  the  rapid  guillotine 

Of  Radicals  in  wrath. 
Fling  aside  restraints  of  law, 

At  each  oath  and  duty  scoff, 
And  if  Chase  to  aid  we  can  not  draw, 

Then  drag  his  ermine  off — 
Ay,  quick  indeed, 
'At  railroad  speed,' 

We'll  drag  his  ermine  off. 


Charles  Graham  Halpine.  325 


"  Since  the  South  is  fairly  floored, 

Men  like  us  may  show  their  teeth  ; 
Let  the  negro  wield  a  flaming  sword, 

And  cast  away  the. sheath. 
Revolution  is  our  end ; 

Throw  disguise  off—  give  it  mouth ; 
And  our  bayonet-rule  shall  soon  extend 

O'er  North  as  well  as  South — 
Black  swords  and  votes 
At  white  men's  throats 

In  North  as  well  as  South. 

"Is  it  true  that  through  the  war, 

Of  all  rebels — meanest,  worst — 
Were  the  black  men  we  were  fighting  for, 

To  break  their  chains  accursed  ? 
In  no  rebel  state  they  rose 

To  assist  us  in  the  fray, 
While  they  labored  hard  to  feed  our  foes, 

And  give  them  arms  and  pay ; 
But  now,  alack ! 
We  need  the  black 

To  prop  our  tottering  sway. 

"  So  let  black  ex-rebels  reign 

O'er  their  Avhite  ex-rebel  lords, 
For  without  them  all  our  plots  are  vain — 

Without  their  votes  and  swords ; 
But  with  Johnson  stricken  down, 

The  Supreme  Court  bound  in  chains, 
Oh,  we  Jacobins  shall  wear  the  crown 

While  breath  of  life  remains — 
Ay,  rule  the  land 
With  Marat's  hand 

While  breath  of  life  remains. 

"So  on  with  railroad  speed," 

The  savage  Butler  cries ; 
"  For,  unless  we  haste,  I  fear  indeed 

Our  farce  of  trial  dies. 
Bring  the  ropes  and  quench  the  light, 

Bind  his  hands  and  gag  his  mouth, 
For  if  Johnson  wins,  we  lose  the  right 

To  rob  and  rule  the  South — 

Yea,  lose  our  job 
.    To  rule  and  rob 

Both  North  as  well  as  South." 


326  The  Poetical  Works,  etc. 


CANTICLE   III. 

BOTTLED  BUTLER'S  SCREECHING  IMPEACHING  SPEECH. 

With  a  voice  in  which  mingles  a  hiss  as  of  asps, 
With  the  squeal  of  a  pig,  and  the  grating  of  rasps, 
And  the  drone  of  a  bagpipe,  the  bottled  one  gasps, 

And  splutters,  and  raves  of  impeachment. 
He  charges  all  crimes,  from  the  highest  e'er  known, 
To  the  lowest  and  meanest — as  mean  as  his  own 
(And  on  crimes  Bottled  Ben  as  an  expert  is  known) — 

Against  Johnson  when  urging  impeachment. 

But  of  all  "bogus  babies,"  unboned  and  ungristled, 
And  of  all  merry  tunes  by  "  the  dying  cow  whistled," 
And  of  all  the  vile  fizzles  that  ever  were  fizzled, 

Commend  us  to  Butler's  impeachment. 
Such  a  weed-crop  of  Radical  nightshade  and  wrath, 
Of  political  stinkweed  and  partisan  froth, 
No  mower  hath  mowed  in  a  single  wide  swath 

As  Ben  Butler  when  urging  impeachment. 


MILES  RUNS  FOR  REGISTER. 

Say,  here !     How  is  it,  misther — 

Are  you  for  the  Boy  or  no  ? 
For  he's  bound  to  be  Re-gisther, 

Let  the  wind  blow  high  or  low. 
All  the  Germans  an'  the  Irish  heje 

For  him  have  dhrawn  the  skean, 
For  Von  Halpine  trinks  zwei  lager  bier, 

And  Miles  he  "wears  the  green." 

All  the  Germans,  etc. 

He's  "  too  young?"    Your  granny's  sisther ! 

I  tell  you  'tisn't  so ; 
An'  he's  bound  to  be  Re-gisther, 

Let  the  wind  blow  high  or  low. 
All  the  Celtic  and  the  Teuton  vote 

Are  friends  of  his,  I  ween, 
For  Von  Halpine  schpeist  mit  pretzel  brodt, 

And  Miles  on  mild  poteen. 

All  the  Celtic,  etc. 

Oh,  the  Wigwam  wants  a  glysther 

For  to  purge  away  her  ills, 
So  we'll  make  him  our  Re-gisther, 

An'  he'll  bate  even  Radway's  pills. 


Charles  Graham  Halpine.  327 


All  the  girls  are  for  him ;  this  is  how 

That  worldlier  came  to  pass — 
Von  Halpine  liebt  ein  blond-e  frau, 

And  Miles  an  Irish  lass. 

All  the  girls,  etc. 

May  my  tongue  be  all  a  blisther 

If  I  tell  a  lie  to  you, 
For  he's  bound  to  be  Re-gisther, 

And  we  all  must  put  him  through. 
Oh,  he  suits  the  men  of  every  race, 

This  gossoon  un  denied — 
Von  Halpine  schpeist  mit  Schweitzer  kaase, 

An'  die  Boy  on  p'raties  biled. 

Oh,  he  suits,  etc. 

So  here's  to  Hans  von  Halpine, 

And  to  Miles  who  wears  the  green ; 
Fill  your  can  and  dhrink  it  all,  man, 

Or  in  Rhine  wein  or  poteen  ; 
For  Miles  he  fit  mit  Sigel, 

And  'mit  Asboth  trinks  poteen ; 
And  you  can't  find  Halpine's  equal 

For  ' '  a-wearing  of  the  green. " 
For  Miles,  etc. 


A  FRAGMENT.54 

Oh,  more  than  tongue  hath  power  to  speak, 

Or  my  hand  the  skill  to  pen  it, 
I  long,  I  burn,  I  strive,  I  seek 

Promotion  to  the  Senate. 
For  this  Lord  Thurlow  hath  my  praise, 

For  this  I  let  him  run  my  paper, 
For  this  I  work  through  weary  days, 

And  waste  the  midnight  taper. 


MORTON  MUST  GO. 

The  mayor  at  last  has  found  a  way 

To  get  out  Morton ;  this  his  plan : 
With  a  new  Directory,  they  say, 
He  will  commence  at  the  letter  A, 
Proceed  in  regular  course  to  Z, 
Skipping  one  M.  by  the  rule  of  three  ; 


328  The  Poetical  Works  of 

And,  should  the  new  Directory  fail, 
An  army-list  he  will  next  assail ; 
Then  get  a  navy-book,  and  try 
Each  "  salt"  that  is  laid  up  high  and  dry, 
Until  at  last  the  opposing  board, 
From  weariness  no  longer  able 
To  lay  the  new  names  on  the  table, 
Owns  itself  bored  and  fairly  floored, 
And  "lets  him  spin  his  man." 


TO  JUDGE  M'CUNN.65 

[Ye  poet  complimenteth  his  hero  on  belligerent  parentage.] 
M'Cunn,  M'Cunn,  you  son  of  a  gun, 
You'll  be  the  death  of  us  ere  you've  done ; 
At  honest  old  Abe  you  first  poked  fun, 
And  now  with  M'Clellan  you've  just  begun, 
While  high  up  promotion's  high  ladder  you  run, 
My  sweet-scented  beauty, 

M'Cunn,  M'Cunn. 

[He  entreateth  him,  for  reasons  assigned,  to  be  less  facetious.] 
M'Cunn,  M'Cunn,  will  you  ever  have  done, 
Or  is  it  but  now  that  you've  just  begun  ? 
Here  we  laugh  till  the  tears  down  our  noses  run, 
While  at  soldier  and  sage  you  keep  poking  your  fun, 
You  charming  young  creature — you  wonderful  one, 
My  bright,  gushing  hero, 

M'Cunn,  M'Cunn. 

[Ye  poet  payeth  due  homage  to  ye  splendor  of  his  hero's  appearance.] 
.  M'Cunn,  M'Cunn,  you're  enough  to  stun — 
You're  a  sight  for  all  nervous  old  ladies  to  shun, 
While,  flashing  and  dancing  beneath  the  sun, 
Clear  down  to  your  elbows  your  epaulettes  run, 
Each  spire  of  the  bullion  alive  with  the  fun 
Of  its  wonderful  wearer, 

M'Cunn,  M'Cunn. 

M'Cunn,  M'Cunn,  you'd  better  have  done, 
Or  an  end  will  be  put  to  your  rollicking  fun ; 
The  romances  you  tell  are  enough  to  stun, 
As  round  from  hotel  to  hotel  you  run ; 
Nor  does  every  one  see  that  you're  only  in  fun, 
My  young  caucus  hero, 

M'Cunn,  M'Cunn. 


Charles  Graham  Halpine.  329 


GENERAL  HALLECK. 

"Who  raised  the  price  of  pork  and  mutton-pies? 
Who  filled  our  butcher-shops  with  large  blue  flies  ?" 
Quick  our  Committee  on  the  War  replies, 

"'Twas  Halleck." 

"  Who  should  be  blamed  for  Gotham's  filthy  streets  ? 
And  for  our  markets  filled  with  poisonous  meats  ?" 
Quick  answers  these  Congressional  Dead  Beats, 

"Blame  Halleck." 


GASTRONOMIC. 

Dear  Philadelphia !  when  I  view 

Thy  streets,  and  think  of  what  thou  art — 
Thy  terrapin,  in  soup  or  stew — 

And  learn  that  from  thee  I  must  part, 
I  do  protest  against  the  deed 

With  streaming  eye  and  watering  mouth, 
And  swear  it  is  no  "knightly  meed" 

That  sends  Meade  wandering  to  the  South. 


TO  MARY. 

Thou  bounding  river, 

I  fly  thy  tranquil  shore ; 
FareweU !     Oh,  never 

Shall  I  behold  thee  more. 
Ye  rocks,  ye  woods  that  quiver 

To  echo's  plaintive  cry, 
Farewell  forever — 

We  part,  and  part  for  aye. 

Thou  shady  grotto, 

In  raptures  deep  and  true, 
When  near  to  Mary, 

How  quick  the  moments  flew. 
Thy  dark  retreat,  all  lonely, 

Where  mysteiy  ever  dwells, 
Was  to  me  only 

Full  of  delicious  spells. 


330  The  Poetical  Works  of 


Days  when  we  were  glad, 

Ye  fleet  away  like  dreams — 
Days  when  we  were  sad, 

Oh,  how  long  each  seems ; 
Far  from  my  own  loved  Mary, 

Forever  severed  wide — 
Dark,  dark  and  dreary, 

Time  rolls  its  sudden  tide. 

Oh  valley,  fairest, 

Dear  valley  of  my  youth — 
Oh  Mary,  dearest, 

Thee  have  I  loved  in  truth. 
Ye  rocks,  ye  woods  that  quiver 

To  echo's  plaintive  cry, 
Farewell  forever — 

We  part,  and  part  for  aye. 


HOLLAND  GIN. 

The  brandy  hath  a  beaming  hue, 

But  no  one  knows  what  it  is  made  of; 
Though  red  itself,  it  makes  us  "  blue" — 

A  thing  the  doctors  are  afraid  of. 
Sweeter  far  the  Holland  gin, 

Which  looks  as  clear  as  bubbling  water, 
But  yet  turns  out,  when  taken  in, 
Intoxication's  subtlest  daughter. 
Oh,  my  darling  Holland  gin — 

My  deadly-drunken,  resinous  Holland — 
Brandy's  hue 
Is  bright  to  view, 
But  strength  is  thine,  my  beaded  Holland. 

The  pure  French  brandy  would  not  hurt, 

But  here  with  such  foul  trash  they  mix  it — 
One  half  is  vitriol,  t'other  dirt, 

And  that's  the  toper's  "ipse  dixit." 
Oh,  the  Holland  gin  for  me, 

So  purely  bright  and  so  transparent, 
That  even  a  drunken  eye  could  see 
A  dead  fly  or  the  slightest  hair  in't. 
Yes,  my  sparkling  Holland  gin — 
My  innocently-colored  Holland — 
Clear  to  view 
As  mountain  dew 
Art  thou,  my  most  destructive  Holland. 


Charles  Graham  Halpine.  331 


Yet  still  in  one  point  both  combine 

To  poison,  sicken,  and  distract  us, 
So  that  it  proves  the  same,  in  fine, 
If  either  or  if  both  attacked  us. 
Beggary,  horror,  falsehood,  woe, 

To  still  more  grievous  crimes  expanded, 
A're  now  retailed  with  every  "go" 
Across  the  groggery  counter  handed. 
Oh,  my  brandy,  devil's  blood ; 
And  sin,  pale  sister  unto  brandy ; 
Brain  and  heart 
Alike  depart 
From  him  who  worships  gin  or  brandy. 


NOTES. 


Note  1,  page  25. 

A    VESPER   HYMN. 

This  composition  was  found  among  the  posthumous  papers  of  the 
deceased.  The  circumstances  under  which  it  was  prepared  were  not 
known  to  his  friends,  and  it  had  no  title ;  but  its  sentiments  seemed 
peculiarly  appropriate  to  the  occasion  of  its  first  publication,  which 
took  place  immediately  after  the  author's  sudden  demise,  and  the  title 
of  Vesper  Hymn  was  then  attached  to  it.  Indorsed  on  it,  however, 
was  the  following  sentence,  in  the  handwriting  of  General  Halpirie, 
"Dedicated  to  the  lady  at  who*se  request  these  hasty  lines  were 
written,  with  the  warmest  and  most  grateful  wishes  of  the  author  for 
her  health  and  happiness.  C.  G.  H." 

Note  2,  page  26. 

ON   RAISING    A   MONUMENT   TO   THE    IRISH   LEGION. 

This  was  the  last  poetical  production  of  the  pen  of  the  author. 
Its  title  explains  the  occasion  of  its  composition — the  preparation  of 
a  suitable  monument  to  Irish  valor  displayed  during  the  war  for  the 
Union. 

Note  3,  page  29. 

AFTER   THE    BATH. 

The  composition  of  this  poem  exemplified  in  a  remarkable  man 
ner  the  wonderful  poetical  fluency  of  the  writer.  He  had  written 
the  first  two  verf  js  when  in  the  country,  and  with  the  exhilaration 
of  beholding  the  beautiful  vision  which  he  was  depicting  fresh  upon 
him  ;  he  wrote  the  last  verse  at  the  Citizen  office,  late  one  afternoon 
subsequently,  and  read  it  to  the  editor  of  this  volume,  saying  it  was 
either  very  good  or  very  bad.  The  gentleman  addressed  ridiculed 
the  closing  sentences  as  absurdly  and  abruptly  extravagant,  and 


334  Notes. 


made  fun  of  the  closing  paragraph,  until  he  feared  his  associate's 
feelings  were  a  little  hurt,  although  the  latter  usually  took  such  af 
fairs  very  good-humoredly.  General  Halpine  handed  the  poem, 
which  consisted  of  the  first,  second,  and  last  verses  only,  to  the  com 
positors,  and  left  the  office  to  walk  home.  By  the  time  he  had 
reached  Canal  Street,  however,  he  had  become  inspired,  and,  return 
ing  to  the  office,  sat  down,  and  in  a  few  minutes  wrote  the  four  ad 
ditional  verses,  making  it  one.  of  the  most  beautiful  of  his  love  son 
nets. 

Note  4,  page  30. 

THE   MAN   OF   THREESCORE. 

A  translation  from  the  French. 

Note  5,  page  36. 

MY   TOAST. 

This  was  written  as  a  tribute  to  the  grace  and  beauty  of  a  charm 
ing  and  fascinating  niece  of  the  editor  of  this  work,  at  whose  home 
General  Halpine  had  met  her  on  two  occasions,  when  he  was  much 
struck  with  her  peculiar  and  unusual  style  of  beauty.  The  name, 
Lucie  Ellice,  was  sufficiently  altered  to  conceal  the  individuality  of 
the  person  addressed,  without  greatly  changing  the  sound.  The 
publication  of  the  piece  in  the  Citizen  led  to  the  contribution  of  sev 
eral  others,  some  by  the  writer  of  this,  and  others  by  different  per 
sons,  winding  up  unexpectedly  with  one  from  a  new  and  unknown 
Lucie  Ellice  of  the  South.  The  series  caused  a  good  deal  of  amuse 
ment  and  excitement  in  literary  circles  at  the  time  of  its  publication. 

Note  6,  page  40. 

TO  RAYMOND  ON  HIS  TRAVELS. 

A  dinner  was  given  at  Delmonico's  to  Hemy  J.  Raymond,  the 
well-known  editor  of  the  New  York  Times,  on  the  eve  of  his  depart 
ure  for  Europe.  Many  of  the  prominent  editors  and  authors  of  the 
day  were  present,  and  countless  good  things  were  said.  Charles  A. 
Dana  presided  in  the  happiest  manner,  and  so  many  capital  speeches 
were  made  that  it  was  felt  desirable  to  have  some  report  made  of  the 
meeting.  This  labor  was  placed  upon  Halpine's  shoulders  of  course, 
and  he  passed  the  residue  of  the  night  in  writing  out  the  account. 
Next  morning  he  came  into  the  room  of  the  editor  of  this  work  and 
commenced  reading  the  song,  which  he  had  put  in  the  shape  of  a 
serenade  into  the  mouth  of  his  hearer.  He  had  covered  fifty  pages 


Notes.  335 


of  foolscap,  besides  composing  half  a  dozen  verses  of  poetry,  between 
two  o'clock  at  night  and  six  in  the  morning.  The  report  of  the  din 
ner  can  be  found  in  the  number  of  the  Citizen  of  July  13,  1867. 

Note  7,  page  46. 

DELMONICO'S    DREAM. 

At  a  dinner  given  to  General  Sheridan  by  General  Halpine,  at 
Delmonico's,  the  caterer  had  served  trout  at  a  time  when,  by  the 
laws  of  nature  and  man,  they  were  utterly  out  of  season.  The  fish 
were  sent  away  from  the  table  untouched,  the  breach  of  law  and 
good  taste  was  strongly  condemned  by  the  public  press,  the  mat 
ter  was  taken  up  by  the  Sportsmen's  Club,  and  Mr.  Delmonico  was 
compelled  to  explain  that  they  had  been  served  without  his  knowl 
edge,  and  during  his  absence  from  the  city,  and  that  such  an  occur 
rence  should  not  happen  again.  It  was  in  the  course  of  the  contro 
versy  that  this  poem  was  written. 

Note  8,  page  50. 

AN   ACROSTIC   BIRTHDAY   OFFERING. 

Addressed  to  Mrs.  James  Gordon  Bennett,  a  lady  for  whose  beauty, 
talents,  and  uncommon  intellectual  cultivation  General  Halpine  had 
the  deepest  respect  and  admiration. 

Note  9,  page  51. 

JAMES   GORDON    BENNETT,  JR. 

In  commemoration  of  the  ocean  yacht  race,  that  plucky  contest  in 
which  Mr.  Bennett  carried  off  the  prize. 

Note  10,  page  51. 
*    THE  KNIGHT'S  ADDRESS. 

Written  on  the  occasion  of  crowning  a  lady  Queen  of  Beauty  and 
Love  at  a  tournament  at  which  he  was  not  present,  the  words  of  the 
ode  to  the  contrary  notwithstanding. 

Note  11,  page  57. 

PHILADELPHIA. 

Written  at  the  time  of  the  attempt  in  Philadelphia  by  the  conser 
vative  leaders  of  the  Kepublican  party  to  form  a  new  party  by  a  co 
alition  of  loyal  Southern  War  Democrats  and  moderate  Republicans. 
A  lamentablv  unsuccessful  effort. 


336  Notes. 


Note  1 2,  page  69. 

STAMPING    OUT. 

There  appeared  in  the  London  Times)  at  the  commencement  of 
the  Fenian  insurrection,  a  vindictive  and  bloody  suggestion  to  put 
down  the  Fenian  rising  as  the  cattle  plague  had  been  arrested,  that 
is,  by  stamping  it  out,  or  destroying  every  animal  attacked  with  the 
disease — a  bloody  and  brutal  proposition,  unparalleled  on  the  page 
of  history.  The  article  read  as  follows,  and  the  poem  was  a  reply  to 
it:  "We  must  stamp  out  the  fires  of  this  Fenian  insurrection,  and 
quench  its  embers  in  the  blood  of  the  wretches  who  are  its  promot 
ers." 

Note  13,  page  77. 
WASHINGTON'S  BIRTHDAY. 

These  lines  were  written  by  General  Halpine  as  the  poet  of  the 
day  on  the  first  annual  celebration  of  the  inauguration  of  the  Mili 
tary  Order  of  the  Legion,  held  in  the  Academy  of  Music,  Philadel 
phia,  on  the  22d  day  of  February,  1 866.  The  meeting  was,  presided 
over  by  Major  General  Cadwallader,  and  many  of  the  most  promi 
nent  officers  of  the  army  were  present. 

Note  14,  page  83. 

MILES   ON   THE   WHITE   FAWN. 

A  spectacular  drama,  exhibiting  much  of  female  charms  unadorn 
ed,  produced  at  Niblo's  Garden,  in  New  York  City. 

Note  15,  page  91. 

LOAFING    AS    A   FINE   ART. 

Addressed  to  the  editor  hereof,  and  eliciting  a  reply  which  was 
published  in  a  subsequent  number  of  the  Citizen. 

Note  16,  page  109. 

SPECIAL   ORDERS,  A.,  NO.  I. 

This  was  written  when  the  author  was  adjutant  general  to  Major 
General  Hunter,  and  was  published  for  distribution  among  the  staff 
officers.  The  young  lady  referred  to  was  a  great  favorite  with  them, 
and  expressed  no  displeasure  over  the  harmless  pleasantry  at  the 
time ;  but  when  it  was  afterward  inserted  in  the  columns  of  the  Citi 
zen,  her  family  took  offense,  and  General  Halpine  expressed  to  the 
editor  of  this  volume  his  intention  of  changing  the  name,  and  thus 


Notes.  337 

depriving  the  damsel  of  her  only  chance  for  immortality.  As  he  for 
got  to  carry  out  this  fell  design,  however,  the  piece  is  left  as  it  was 
originally  written. 

Note  17,  page  111. 

PERSONAL. 

It  is  almost  superfluous  to  say  that  this  poem  refers  to  the  editor 
of  this  volume.  The  persons  spoken  of  are  Matthew  T.  Brennan,  wht> 
was  city  comptroller ;  Orison  Blunt,  who  voted  himself  a  testimonial 
out  of  the  people's  money  in  consideration  for  his  public  services ; 
Nathaniel  Sands,  agent  of  the  Citizen's  Association,  ~of  which  the 
writer  was  one  of  the  founders  ;  A.  J.  Hackley,  who  had  a  question 
able  contract  with  the  municipal  government  for  street  cleaning ;  and 
F.  I.  A.  Boole,  who  was  city  inspector,  and  spent  a  million  in  not 
cleaning  the  streets.  Most  of  these  gentlemen  were  supposed  to 
have  cause  to  bear  the  "Boy  Bob"  in  lasting,  but  not  friendly  re 
membrance  for  his  attempts,  by  the  aid  of  the  Citizen's  Association, 
to  reform  the  municipal  government. 

Note  18,  page  116. 

TO   THE   CHIEF  JUSTICE. 

Addressed  to  Chief  Justice  Salmon  P.  Chase,  when  presiding  in 
the  Senate  over  the  impeachment  trial  of  President  Andrew  Johnson, 
at  a  time  when  every  effort  was  being  made  by  the  Republican  press 
to  force  a  conviction  as  a  party  measure,  and  when  it  was  feared  that 
the  accused  would  not  have  an  impartial  hearing. 

Note  19,  page  117. 

TO   FENTON. 

The  New  York  City  tax  levy  had  been  passed  by  the  Legislature, 
and  was  awaiting  the  signature  of  Governor  Fenton,  when  this  jocose 
effusion  was  written.  There  was  a  rumor  that  the  governor  would 
veto  the  measure,  and  leave  the  city  without  any  government  for  the 
ensuing  year,  and  with  all  the  outstanding  claims  against  it  unpaid. 
The  members  of  the  Union  League  Club  had  recommended  the  gov 
ernor  to  pursue  this  unusual  and  dangerous  course,  but  he  was  finally 
convinced  by  the  humorous  arguments  of  Miles  O'Reilly,  and  signed 
the  bill. 

22  P 


338  Notes. 


Note  20,  page  129. 

INDIFFERENCE. 

On  the  manuscript  of  this  piece  was  found,  in  the  handwriting  of 
General  Halpine,  the  expressive  and  appropriate  word  "Twaddle." 

Note  21,  page  130. 

ONE   DEAD   SURE   THING. 

John  B.  Haskin  is  a  New  York  politician,  and  the  song  refers  to  a 
resolution  complimentary  to  President  Johnson,  which  he  introduced 
into  a  Democratic  Convention. 

Note  22,  page  130. 

MOTTO   OF   THE   MASS. 

There  was  indorsed  on  the  revised  manuscript  of  this  poem,  in  the 
handwriting  of  the  deceased  author,  the  words  "Social  and  reflect 
ive." 

Note  23,  page  131. 

TIME. 

Indorsed  by  the  author  "Reflective." 

Note  24,  page  132. 

FIERY   ELOQUENCE. 

Indorsed  by  the  author  "  Reflective:  boyish— a  revised  copy." 
Note  25,  page  133. 

FAUGH   AU   BEALLACH. 

The  author  characterizes  this  as  "  Extremely  boyish. " 
Note  26,  page  134. 

MATRIMONIAL    COMPLACENCY. 

Indorsed  "Feminine:  boyish." 

Note  27,  page  1315. 

IRISH   ASTRONOMY. 

Manuscript  indorsed  "Boyish." 

Note  28,  page  137. 

TO    A    FRIEND. 

Indorsed  "Pathetic  and  philosophical." 


Notes.  339 


Note  29,  page  159. 
BARON  RENFREW'S  BALL. 

Descriptive  of  a  public  ball  given  to  the  Prince  of  Wales,  on  his 
visit  to  this  country,  at  the  Academy  of  Music,  in  the  city  of  New 
York.  The  ladies  referred  to  are  Mrs.  Senator  Morgan  and  other 
leading  belles  of  New  York  society.  The  reference  to  the  breaking 
away  of  the  floor  applies  to  an  actual  occurrence — an  accident  that 
fortunately  resulted  in  no  injury  to  any  one,  and  not  even  in  any  con 
siderable  interruption  to  the  festivities.  On  the  occasion  referred  to 
the  benevolent  Mr.  Peter  Cooper  took  special  charge  of  the  prince. 

Note  30,  page  184. 
O'MAHONY  OF  THE  COMERAGHS. 

O'Mahony,  an  intimate  friend  of  the  author,  was  the  first  Head 
Centre  of  the  Fenian  organization ;  but  factions  subsequently  broke 
out,  accusations  of  neglect  and  malfeasance  were  brought  against 
Mr.  O'Mahony  by  his  enemies,  and  a  new  wing  of  the  party  was 
formed  under  Mr.  Roberts.  General  Halpine  had  full  confidence  in 
O'Mahony,  in  his  good  intentions  and  his  entire  sincerity,  and  wrote 
this  effusion  at  the  time  when  the  difficulties  referred  to  were  rife, 
and  as  an  expression  of  his  opinion. 

Note  31,  page  207. 

ADVERTISEMENT   EXTRAORDINARY. 

Mr.  Thurlow  Weed,  while  returning  from  Washington  to  New 
York,  had  his  pocket  picked  in  the  cars.  The  various  allusions  are 
to  the  events  of  the  day  in  which  he  and  others  were,  or  were  sup 
posed  to  be,  mixed  up.  Mr.  Andrews  was  then  surveyor  of  the  port 
under  Mr.  Weed's  recommendation ;  Mr.  Greeley,  it  was  supposed, 
would  like  a  place  in  the  Cabinet ;  Henry  J.  Raymond  preferred  a 
foreign  mission,  as  did  also  Mr.  James  Gordon  Bennett,  or,  at  least, 
such  were  the  suspicions  of  the  public.  The  Cummings  referred  to 
was  Mr/  Alexander  Cummings,  then  proprietor  of  the  World,  which 
at  that  time  was  a  pious  Republican  newspaper. 

Note  32,  page  216. 

BREVET   RANK. 

This  refers  to  Lafayette  C.  Baker,  Stanton's  wretched  tool  and 
spy,  at  the  time  it  was  proposed  to  brevet  him  brigadier  general  for 
his  infamous,  albeit,  where  honestly  performed,  necessary  services — 


340  Notes. 


services  which  civilized  nations  scarcely  class  with  bravery  in  the 
field  of  battle,  and  usually  pay  for.  in  so  much  hard  money.  Fortu 
nately  the  effort  to  convert  a  spy,  who  was  not  popularly  regarded 
as  peculiarly  scrupulous,  into  a  hero,  failed. 

Note  33,  page  232. 

THE    DIFFERENCE. 

There  was  an  unfounded  report  circulated  through  the  press,  at 
about  the  time  these  lines  were  written,  to  the  effect  that  General 
James  Lane,  of  Kansas,  had  committed  suicide.  The  beauty  of  this 
piece  consists  in  its  truth. 

Note  34,  page  232. 
LECOMPTON'S  BLACK  BRIGADE. 

This  was  written  while  the  author  was  closely  allied  to  Stephen  A. 
Douglas  politically,  and  refers  to  the  Democratic  Convention  which 
met  at  Charleston,  and  which  was  adjourned  to  Baltimore  in  conse 
quence  of  the  violence  of  the  Southern  leaders,  who  were  then  initi 
ating  their  movements  toward  secession — movements  which  resulted 
later  in  rebellion.  The  references  are  to  men  prominent  at  the  time 
in  politics,  many  of  whom  were  distinguished  subsequently  in  the 
struggle  to  destroy  the  Union. 

Note  35,  page  234. 

THE   LYRIC   OF    TWEDDLE   HALL. 

The  Democratic  organization  in  the  city  of  New  York,  founded  by 
General  Halpine,  John  Y.  Savage,  and  Nelson  J.  Waterbury,  in  oppo 
sition  to  Tammany  Hall,  had  applied  for  and  been  refused  recogni 
tion  by  the  State  Convention,  and,  in  consequence  of  this  indignity, 
had  resolved  on  political  vengeance.  Cagger  and  Cassidy  were  heads 
of  the  Albany  Regency,  Samuel  J.  Tilden  was  chairman  of  the  State 
Committee,  and  the  "Central"  referred  to  was  the  Central  Railroad, 
which  up  to  that  time  had  been  used  to  help  the  Democracy. 

Note  36,  page  236. 

GIVE  ME  GUANO  OR  GIVE  ME  DEATH. 

Jeremiah  Black,  attorney  general  of  the  United  States,  declined 
to  defend  the  President  of  the  United  States  when  on  trial  of  im 
peachment  unless  he  could  obtain  the  aid  of  the  government  in  en 
forcing  claims  held  by  certain  of  his  clients  to  an  island  of  guano — 
a  curious  phase  of  the  impeachment  trial  of  Andrew  Johnson,  which 


Notes.  341 


will  live  in  history  with  an  odor  worthy  of  the  subject,  and  not  of 
sanctity. 

Note  37,  page  236. 

TO   UNCLE   SAM. 

England  having  abused  this  country  for  suspending  the  Habeas 
Corpus  Act  during  the  terrible  struggle  for  the  Union,  herself  sus 
pended  that  "great  palladium  of  freedom"  in  consequence  of  a  few 
Fenian  riots,  and  imprisoned  Irishmen,  naturalized  American  citi 
zens,  whom  she  suspected  of  complicity  in  Fenian  plots,  on  their  re 
visiting  the  land  of  their  birth. 

Note  38,  page  237. 

THE   PRESIDENT   TO   CONGRESS. 

This  was  written  at  the  time  when  fche  impeachment  of  Andrew 
Johnson  was  threatened.  The  quotations  are  mainly  from  speeches 
made  by  him  in  his  famous  tour  through  the  country.  Uncle  Thad 
is  Thaddeus  Stevens ;  Ashley  is  the  representative  in  Congress  who 
first  proposed  impeachment ;  Phillips  is  Wendell  Phillips ;  Mrs. 
Cobb,  a  lady  popularly  accused  of  being  a  successful  place  and  par 
don  broker.  The  "  Cleveland  scrape"  was  the  movement  for  a  new 
party,  to  which  the  assent  of  Henry  Ward  Beecher  was  obtained — 
an  assent  that  he  hastily  recalled. 

Note  39,  page  240. 

MANHOOD   AGAINST  THE   MACHINES. 

A  political  screed  referring  to  local  New  York  combinations.  The 
"Lunch  Club"  consists  of  the  Tammany  leaders  who  dine  daily  at 
the  City  Hall,  but,  it  is  simple  justice  to  add,  at  their  own  expense. 
The  references  are  to  Michael  Connolly,  the  "big  judge;"  John 
Hardy  and  Billy  Walsh,  ex-aldermen ;  Nelson  J.  Waterbury,  the 
"long  judge,"  formerly  district  attorney;  Smith  Ely,  supervisor — 
leaders  of  the  Democratic  Union,  the  organization  opposed  to  the 
dictation  of  Tammany  Hall  in  city  politics ;  and  to  Peter  B.  Sweeny, 
chamberlain;  John  T.  Hoffman,  mayor ;  William  M.  Tweed,  super 
visor,  deputy  street  commissioner,  and  state  senator ;  A.  Oakey  Hall, 
district  attorney — the  head  men  of  Tammany,  and  constituting  its 
sacred  "Ring." 


342  Notes. 


Note  40,  page  243. 

JOHN  MORRISSEY   MY   JO,  JOHN. 

Mr.  Morrissey  was  elected  as  fitting  representative  of  New  York 
City  in  Congress,  and  these  lines  were  written  in  his  honor.  He  was 
a  pugilist  and  gambler,  but  it  was  reported  that  he  would  not  cheat, 
and  always  "  fought  fair." 

Note  41,  page  245. 

FERNANDO'S    CARD. 

The  virtuous  Fernando  Wood  announced  in  a  card  his  desire  for 
re-election  to  Congress  solely  as  a  public  refutation  of  the  calumnies 
heaped  upon  him  by  his  enemies. 

Note  42,  page  245. 

FOURTH   CONGRESSIONAL   DISTRICT. 

S.  S.  Cox  and  John  Fox,  New  York  politicians,  were  both  aspi 
rants  for  a  seat  in  Congress  from  this  district. 

Note  43,  page  249. 

CHURCH,  CAGGER,  AND   PIPER. 

The  references  are  to  Sanford  E.  Church,  Peter  Cagger,  S.  B. 
Piper,  Dean  Richmond,  president  of  the  New  York  Central  Railroad, 
and  Erastus  Corning,  who  were  members  of  the  New  York  State 
Democratic  General  Committee,  and  some  of  whom  belonged  to  what 
was  known  in  politics  as  the  Albany  Regency. 

Note  44,  page  251. 

LINES   TO   A   CONGRESSMAN. 

Refers  to  Hemy  J.  Raymond,  editor  in  chief  of  the  New  York  Times. 
Note  45,  page  255. 

TWEEDLEDUM  AND  TWEEDLEDEE. 

Refers  to  the  newspaper  controversies  between  Horace  Greeley  and 
Thurlow  Weed.  "  Sid.  Gay"  is  Sidney  Howard  Gay,  then  mana 
ging  editor  of  the  Tribune. 

Note  46,  page  256. 

THE    HEALTH    BILL. 

This  was  a  measure  of  reform  carried  by  the  Citizen's  Association, 
with  the  help  of  the  Republicans,  to  take  the  control  of  sanitary 


Notes.  343 


matters  in  the  city  of  New  York  from  a  body  of  political  inspectors, 
several  of  whom  testified  before  a  legislative  committee  that  they 
considered  "hygiene"  to  be  a  "bad  smell"  or  a  " collection  of  dirty 
water, "  and  give  it  to  a  medical  board.  Reference  is  made  to  Thomas 
C.  Acton,  president  of  the  Metropolitan  Board  of  Police,  and  Lyman 
Tremaine,  attorney  general. 

Note  47,  page  258. 

RING    RHYMES. 

This  collection  of  fugitive  poetical  screeds  refers  to  political  mat 
ters  in  the  city  of  New  York,  and  to  the  great  contest  which  the  au 
thor  waged  as  Head  Centre  of  the  Democratic  Union  Organization 
against  the  Tammany  Hall  clique,  popularly  described  as  the  "Ring." 
These  references  can  only  be  understood  by  persons  well  versed  in 
that  greatest  of  mysteries,  New  York  politics,  and  to  such  it  would 
be  a  work  of  supererogation  to  explain  them.  The  following  short 
and  condensed  statement  may  be  worth  the  type  it  requires.  On  the 
side  of  the  Democratic  Union  were  Michael  Connolly,  nicknamed  the 
"  Big  Judge  ;"  William  Walsh,  a  Fourth  Ward  ex-alderman ;  Daniel 
M.  O'Brien,  candidate  for  the  state  Fenate,  and  Smith  Ely,  super 
visor.  And  opposed  to  them  were  Matthew  T.  Brennan,  then  city 
comptroller,  subsequently  deprived  of  power,  and  shelved  on  the 
Board  of  Police  Commissioners ;  Charles  G.  Cornell,  street  commis 
sioner  ;  Terence  Farley,  alderman,  and  city  contractor  on  very  profit 
able  jobs  ;  Peter  B.  Sweeny,  brains  of  Tammany  Hall,  subsequently 
made  city  chamberlain;  William  M.Tweed,  supervisor,  and  later  a 
very  fat  pluralist,  great  executive  officer  of  the  combination  ;  Francis 
I.  A.  Boole,  a  low  scamp  from  Canada,  city  inspector,  and  later  a 
lunatic ;  Fernando  Wood,  absolute  owner  of  an  organization  called 
Mozart,  which  he  ran  as  a  tender  or  an  opponent  to  Tammany,  ac 
cording  as  either  paid  him  best ;  Thomas  C.  Fields,  state  Senator, 
mouthpiece  of  the  "  Ring."  To  explain  all  the  allusions  in  this  and 
other  political  effusions,  the  space  of  a  volume  would  be  required. 

Note  48,  page  289. 

SONG   OF   THE   NATIONAL   DEMOCRACY. 

Written  when  it  was  proposed  to  nominate  General  Dix  for  gov 
ernor  of  the  State  of  New  York.  Richmond,  Pruyn,  Cagger,  and 
Cassidy  were  members  of  the  controlling  political  Democratic  clique 
called  the  Albany  Regency.  Elijah  F.  Purdy,  city  supervisor,  was 
nicknamed  the  "War  Horse." 


344:  Notes. 


Note  49,  page  292. 

SENATOR   TOM   ON   CLAMS. 

John  E.  Develin,  corporation  counsel,  was  celebrated  for  giving  de 
lightful  clam-bakes.  On  a  certain  occasion  Senator  Thomas  Murphy 
was  invited  to  one  of  these  famous  entertainments,  and  this  song  is 
supposed  to  have  been  written  to  express  his  appreciation  of  the  par 
ticular  dainties  that  were  put  before  him. 

Note  50,  page  303. 

THE   NEW  "  SPIKE"  FOR   POLITICAL   GDNS. 

James  B.  Taylor  was  connected  with  the  two  greatest  swindles 
ever  perpetrated  against  the  city  of  New  York  —  that  of  West  Wash 
ington  Market  and  of  Fort  Gansevoort  —  and  it  was  said  he  had 
bought  an  interest  in  the  New  York  Times,  to  prevent  that  paper 
exposing  him.  The  references  are  to  Owen  W.  Brennan,  Republican 
Commissioner  of  Charities  and  Corrections,  brother  of  Matthew  T. 
Brennan,  Democratic  comptroller,  who  had  to  pass  on  the  Fort  Gan 
sevoort  matter  ;  Anse  was  Anson  Herrick,  editor  of  the  Atlas  ;  Peter 
Griese  was  the  name  of  a  "  dummy"  on  a  railroad  bill  before  the  Leg 
islature,  and  supposed  to  stand  for  Peter  B.  Sweeny  ;  Nelson  was 
Nelson  J.  Waterbury,  head  of  the  opposition  to  Tammany  Hall,  and 
Doty  was  the  fictitious  name  of  a  subscriber  to  city  bonds,  which 
were  given  to  him  at  par  when  they  were  selling  in  market  above 
par,  and  was  supposed  to  stand  for  an  eminent  Democratic  judge. 


51,  page  310. 

MY   SAMBO   OF   THE    KOM-HERAUS. 

This  and  the  next  song  were  first  published  in  the  Citizen  under 
the  pretense  that  they  were  written  by  Henry  J.  Raymond,  and  as  a 
specimen  of  his  style,  in  retaliation  for  the  publication  in  the  Times 
of  a  fictitious  letter  purporting  to  come  from  Miles  O'Reilly. 

Note  52,  page  311. 

THE  BOARD  OF  CONTROL  PROGRAMME. 

A  bill  was  introduced  into  the  Republican  Legislature  at  Albany 
to  cure  the  evils  of  New  York  City  politics  by  putting  the  municipal 
government  into  the  hands  of  a  Board  of  Control.  This  scheme  was 
mainly  promoted  by  Waldo  Hutchings,  a  Republican  wire-puller. 


Notes.  345 


Note  53,  page  312. 

LYRICS   OP   ALBANY. 

Mr.  Glenn,  a  member  of  Assembly,  denounced  his  associates  for 
receiving  bribes,  but  failed  to  prove  his  case,  and  was  forced  to  re 
sign. 

Note  54,  page  327. 

A   FRAGMENT, 

attributed  by  Miles  to  Henry  J.  Raymond — a  performance  of  which 
the  latter  has  never  yet  been  able  to  see  the  joke. 

Note  55,  page  328. 

TO  JUDGE  M'CUNN, 

refers  to  the  famous  adventures  of  the  eminent  Judge  M'Cunn,  of  the 
New  York  Superior  Court,  when  he  donned  his  spurs  and  sallied  out 
to  the  war,  where  he  won  high  renown  in  an  extremely  limited  period. 

P2 


INDEX 


Page 

A  California!!  Ditty 45 

Adieu 129 

Adieu  to  the  Princess  Piccolomini 121 

Advertisement  Extraordinary 20T 

After  the  Bath , 29 

Aldermanic  Ghost 283 

An  Acrostic  Birthday  Offering 50 

Ancient  Abe 300 

An  old  Maxim  reversed. 100 

Anti-Maine  Law  Lyric 221 

Apotheosis  of  Jay  Cooke 273 

At  the  Sea-side 76 

Author's  Ritual 1C6 

A  Visit 215 

Bacchantes ' ; 128 

Ballad  of  Lord  Lovell 309 

Baron  Renfrew's  Ball 159 

Belle  of  the  Ball 37 

Better  Choice • 62 

Big  Thing  Hoff.  has  had 321 

BUI  of  another  Week's  Exhibition 318 

Birth  of  the  Battle  Year. 178 

Black  Loyalty 87 

Blessing  the  Shamrock 89 

Bloomer  Lyric 172 

Board  of  Control  Programme 311 

Bob  Smith,  of  Fulton  Street •. ...  285 

Brace  of  Sonnets 210 

Breezy  Dissertation • 43 

Brevet  Rank 216 

Broadway  Belle 142 

Broken  Heart  (from  the  French) , 123 

Broken  Meerschaum 49 

'  Bumper  to  Grant 245 

Can  any  One  find  us  a  Speaker  ? 322 

Cattle  of  the  Board  of  Supervisors 319 

Chant  of  the  No-Kami 127 

Chief  Justice 116 


348  Index. 


Page 

Church,  Cagger,  and  Piper 249 

Cochrane 294 

College  Song 224 

Composition  Duett 156 

Cool  of  the  Evening 194 

Corporation  Counsel  Chargers  on  their  Mettte 313 

Crusader's  Song  (from  the  Russian) 161 

Czar  and  the  Sultan 105 

Delmonico's  Dream 46 

Democratic  Rally 291 

Difference 232 

Dollar  in  his  Pouch 49 

Drinking  Song 196 

Duet  for  the  Breakfast-Table , 64 

Epigram  by  the  Collector 243 

Epigram  to  a  young  Lady 141 

Everglades  withdraw 176 

Exile's  Grave • 225 

Fandango's  Apotheosis 305 

Farewell  to  Club  Companions 32 

Faugh  an  Beallach 133 

Feminine  Arithmetic .' 120 

Fenian  Scare ; 221 

Fernando's  Card 245 

Ferry-boat 155 

Ferry-boats  of  Gotham 199 

Fiery  Eloquence 132 

Fifth  Senatorial  District 268 

First  of  May , 200 

Fond  and  Foolish 101 

Forensic  Eloquence 214 

Forsythe 54 

Fountain 203 

Fountain  on  Boston  Common 202 

Fourth  Book  of  Horace— Thirteenth  Ode 22T 

Fourth  Ode— First  Book  of  Horace 225 

Fourth  Senatorial  District 267 

Fragment 327 

Gastronomic. 329 

.General  Orders  of  the  Citizen 217 

Give  me  Guano  or  give  me  Death „ 236 

Gordon  Granger 81 

Grand  Democratic  Chowder 267 

Grand  Rout  of  the  Nabobs 296 

Halleck 329 

Health  Bill -. 256 

Hill  of  Killenarden 230 

Hoffman,  dear 321 

Holland  Gin 330 

Honor  the  Brave  52 

Horace— First  Book,  Fourth  Ode 225 


Index.  349 


Page 

Horace— Fourth  Book,  Thirteenth  Ode 227 

Horace  Greeley  as  Herod 307 

Household  Toinb 58 

Hurra  for  Andy  Johnson 282 

Hymn  to  the  Types 102 

Igdrasil 220 

Indifference 129 

In  Memoriam 169 

In  Pleasant  Hours 122 

Ireland  and  the  South 59 

Irish  Astronomy 136 

Irish  Legion 26 

Islands  that  await  us ." : 100 

James  Gordon  Beuuett,  Jr. 51 

Janette's  Hair — 92 

John  Morrissey  my  jo,  John 243 

Judge  M'Cuun 328 

Knight's  Address 51 

Labor's  War  Song 186 

Last  Appeal 85 

Last  Resort 90 

La  Suissesse  au  Bord  du  Lac 120 

Laura 75 

Laura— Singing 205 

Le  Compton's  Black  Brigade 232 

Le  Printemps  (from  the  French) \ 157 

Les  Hirondelles 93 

Letter  from  John  Bull,  Esq.,  to  Jeremiah  Sly,  Esq.,  Cotton  Broker,  New 

York 165 

Life  Chase 231 

Lines  on  Louis  Napoleon 33 

Lines  on  the  Russo-Turkish  War 73 

Lines  to  a  Congressman 251 

Lisper  and  Booth 70 

Little  Rhymes  of  Little  Things Cl 

Live-oak  George 288 

Loafing  as  a  Fine  Art 91 

Lost  Love 201 

Lucie  Ellice 36 

Lyric  of  Tweddle  Hall 234 

Lyrics  of  Albany 312 

Mac,  my  Darlin' 286 

Magnificent  Supreme  Court  Evolutions 318 

Maine-Law  Lyric 91 

Manhood  against  the  Machines 240 

Man  of  Threescore \ 30 

Ma  Normandie  (from  the  French) 81 

Mary 329 

Matrimonial  Complacency 134 

Mayoralty  Nags  and  Riders 314 

Midnight  Watch 83 


350  Index. 


Miles  on  the  White  Fawn 83 

Miles  runs  for  Register 326 

Miner's  Dream 85 

Minnie,  my  doll-Wife 114 

More  Light 213 

Morning  Serenade  (from  the  French) ' 84 

Morton  must  go 327 

Motto  of  the  Mass 130 

Mr.  Johnson's  Policy  of  Reconstruction. 257 

Mustering  of  the  Clans 320 

My  Dove  in  her  Nest 209 

My  Soul  is  sad 212 

My  Southward  Winging  Oriole „ 158 

Mysterious  Verses  from  a  pink-eyed  Bard 304 

Mystic  Voice 195 

My  Toast 36 

Nea 198 

Nebraska  and  Kansas 284 

New  "  Spike"  for  political  Gnns 303 

New  Version  of  John  Brown 182 

New  Yor-k  Crystal  Palace 173 

New  York  in  a  Nutshell 274 

New  York  in  a  Snow-coat , 124 

Night  Ride  of  Ancient  Abe 299 

Ninth  Ode  of  Horace,  Third  Book 223 

Not  a  Star  from  the  Flag  shall  Fade 119 

Nymph  of  Lurleibergh 66 

"  Oh,  young  Geordie  Sanders" 135 

Oh,  wanton  Wind 206 

Old  Bachelor's  New  Year 168 

Olden  Memories 192 

Old  Green  Flag 71 

Old  Year  and  the  New .141 

Olfactory  Ode  in  Praise  of  New  York  Cleanliness 151 

O'Mahony  of  the  Comeraghs 184 

One  dead  sure  Thing 130 

Only  some  Relics 55 

Opium  Dream 203 

Original  Sin 68 

"  Our  Big  Thing  on  Ice" 259 

Palpable  Parody 125 

Parepa  Rosa 122 

Partant  pour  la  Syrie  (from  the  French) 222 

Parting 83 

Parting  Kiss 67 

Philadelphia 57, 302 

Philip  and  1 213 

Picture  in  Water-colors 140 

Political  Opium  Dream 276 

Presidential  Warning 248 

President  to  Congress 237 


Index.  351 


Page 

Psalms  of  Impeachment 324 

Pungent  Consideration  of  the  various  Trades  and  Callings 153 

Quaker  Coquette 88 

Quakerdom 35 

Raymond  on  his  Travels 40 

Rejected 201 

Rhymer's  Ritual 113 

Rime  of  ye  Seedie  Printeere  Man 112 

Ring  Rhymes  by  O'Reilly 258 

Ring-stamp  Fatal 299- 

Romance  and  Echo 10T 

Rooseveltiana— Our  Boy  Bob Ill 

Ruby  Ring.... 197 

Sambo  a  bad  Egg 311 

Sambo  of  the  Kom-heraus 310 

Second  Book  of  Horace,  Sixteenth  Ode— To  Wideswarth 171 

Senator  Gwin  to  Buchanan 293 

Senator  Tom  on  Clams 292 

Seventh  Senatorial  District : 270 

Sheridan 38 

Similes 182 

Sixth  Senatorial  District . 269 

Solemn  political  Death-bed 253 

Song  for  White  Men 279 

Song  of  the  National  Democracy 289 

Song :  Philanthropic  and  Piratical 162 

Song  to  the  Sons  of  St.  Tammany 306 

Soon  we'll  have  the  Union  back 242 

Souvenir 189 

Special  Orders,  A.,  No.  1 109 

Spirit  Rapping 98 

Squadron  of  mounted  Sailors 316 

Stamping  Out 69 

Stars  of  Memory 96 

Storm  brewing 247 

St.  Tammany  and  the  Nabobs 270 

St.  Tammany's  Terror 239 

Sylvia 191 

Ten  Years  too  Late 178. 

Theatrical  Gingernuts 193 

The  Marchioness 193 

There  is  no  such  Word  as  Fail,  Boys 287 

The  Seventh  to  John  Cochrane 294 

The  Turquois  Brooch 125 

•Thine  Eyes  of  Blue  (from  the  French) '. 126 

Things  that  I  Seen  and  Heerd  in  Buckin'ham  Palice. 144 

Third  Ode,  Fourth  Book  of  Horace 219 

Thirty  Years  Old 180 

Three  of  us  at  the  Fountain 202 

'  Time 131 

To  a  Friend. 137 


352  Index. 


Page 

Toast  and  a  Cheer 186 

To  a  Wealthy  Amateur  Critic 190 

To  Azra 94 

To  Fenton— The  Tax  Levy 117 

Translations  from  Horace— No.  XI 188 

Tribune's  Presidential  Philosophy 257 

Trooper  to  his  Mare 216 

Tropic  Bird 210 

Truth  in  Parenthesis ,. 218 

Tweedledum  and  Tweedledee 255 

Two  Voices 41 

Uncle  Sam 236 

Uncle  Thad  Stevens 221) 

Valentine 211 

Venice's  new  Chance 204 

Vesper  Hymn 25 

Visit 215 

Voice  of  the  Army 252 

Wall  Street  Usurer  on  Eustic  Bliss 163 

War  Democratic  View  of  M'Clellan's  Nomination 281 

Washington's  Birthday,  1865 77 

Wearie  Pen 138 

Webster 118 

Well-dressed  Man 108 

We  might  have  been 226 

Who  killed  the  Nabobs  ? 297 

Widower's  Christmas 86 

Widowology  Philosophized 228 

Wisdom  in  Doggerel 127 

Woman's  Rights 150 


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LIBRARY,  UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA,  DAVIS 

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Poetical  works. 


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Al? 
1869 


LIBRARY 

UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA 
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